


Anacrusis

by Ballades



Series: Questionable Chemistry [8]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Terrible Jokes, The Randy Dowager, Trespasser compliant, not perfect relationships, now with art, post-game fic, questionable chemistry, slow burn?, unbearable fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-16 14:22:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 87,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4628571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballades/pseuds/Ballades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After her triumph in the Winter Palace, the Inquisitor returns to Skyhold, ready for peace and quiet.  Her hopes fade, however, when the anchor begins to act unpredictably and uncontrollably, leaving her with questions about herself, her role, and her legacy.</p><p>Nothing could have prepared her for this.</p><p>(This is the third and final Inquisitor story in the <i>Questionable Chemistry</i> series.  If you have not read <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3151289/chapters/6838949"><i>In Vigils</i></a> or <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3546317/chapters/7807637"><i>Eveningwear</i></a>, it is strongly recommended to do so.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Anacrusis; n.
> 
> 1\. one or more unstressed (but not unimportant) syllables at the beginning of a verse.  
> 2\. _preparation_.
> 
> Origin: mid 19th century: modern Latin, from Greek _anakrousis,_ ‘prelude,’ from _ana_ \- ‘up’ + _krousis_ , from _krouein_ ‘to strike.’

Ragged gasps.

Hips thrusting forward, the friction of pleasure. The shocks of connection rippling through her body, hammering her into fractures along familiar fault lines. The thump of their bodies hard against the mattress, seismic, the planes of them colliding, grinding. "Cullen," Aeveth moans, her mouth gaping open, chin tilting up like a new mountain. Her eyes shiver shut.

He can feel the peaks of her breasts as points on his chest. The sounds she makes are of the earth, deep and groaning, emanating from her core. When she writhes beneath him their stomachs touch, and Cullen can imagine that center, that tautness, fist-sized and white-hot, shaking with their gravity, with their convergence. 

Aeveth is trembling, shuddering, trying to come apart. Cullen holds her together, her face in his hands, but then their breaths align, amplifying, and he can't do anything but dig his fingers into the bed, bury his forehead in her neck, and let her tremors take them both. Cullen's voice when he comes is hoarse and muffled and inarticulate; his climax is fierce and intense, so powerful that he is ungrounded, spinning, shifted on his axis. Breaking, he's breaking. Aeveth has broken him, and he her.

They lie together in pieces afterwards, limbs scattered over the sheets. Cullen gathers her up, slides his palms under her shoulderblades, brings her collarbone to his lips. She is limp and liquid; he tastes the salt of her sweat. 

"Aeveth."

"...hmm?"

"I love you."

"Mmm." Her fingers curl into his hair, the weight of her right hand comforting when it cradles the back of his head. She keeps her eyes closed. Once her breathing slows she opens them and pushes at his arm. Cullen rises and grins ruefully at the slip-stick of their skins peeling apart, kisses the tips of her fingers as they outline his jaw.

Aeveth gets up gingerly, swinging her legs off the side of the bed, moving stiffly towards the washroom. The small smile she wears hits him in the chest, catches the air in his throat. It's his, he's sure; it's private, for him alone. He almost calls her back for a kiss.

"Walk of shame," Aeveth murmurs, then laughs softly. Absentmindedly, she massages her left hand.

Instead, Cullen relaxes into the pillows and admires the view. "Not from this vantage point," he says.

She snorts and waves him off without looking back, then closes the washroom door behind her. Soon, the water starts running. 

He sighs and fixes his gaze on the ceiling.

Cullen is losing her.

He has known this before he could put it into words, admit it to himself. It's a realization that has come to him little by little, in every smile Aeveth does not return, in the slight touches she does not reciprocate. He is losing her, losing the stillness of her after they make love, when she is the most stripped-down and open, the most genuine. She used to be honest for hours, just the two of them, her truth measured in the quantity of their kisses, in the lightness of their banter. In that time they could set down their duties; in bed, with the chime of her laugh and the warmth of her affection, Cullen had felt weightless.

What they have now is erosion, seconds worn away here and there until Aeveth's honesty is minutes long, made shorter by habit, with practice. Cullen's gaze snaps to her as she exits the washroom, her slender form clothed only in the beams of sunlight streaming through the windows. She strides over to the bed, the heaviness of her title reassumed, her heels striking sharply even through the thickness of the rugs on the floor, plucking up her undertunic, her smallclothes, her breeches, as she approaches.

"I've got training this afternoon," she tells him, her head disappearing briefly, hidden by cloth. Cullen watches the garment settle, can see through the thin linen the round smudges of her areolae growing darker and sharper when she laces the garment down, outlining her figure. "Will you join us?"

"I shirked enough of my work to get trounced by Bull this morning," Cullen replies, pushing himself upright. 

Aeveth wriggles into her breeches, then shrugs into her arming doublet, begins doing up the closures. “I’m sure it wasn’t so bad, Cullen. You two are a fair match even on your worst days. As for myself, Michel will likely have me on my rear in under a minute. I’ll be black and blue by sundown.”

Cullen frowns disapprovingly. “He oughtn’t be so rough.”

She laughs off his concern. “I love it, Cullen. I haven’t yet had the pleasure of a bear stopping to tell me he’ll hold back. When that happens, you’ll be the first to receive a bird. A talking bear! No Cassandra to punch it into Orlais! And a gentle bear, considerate of how much pain he is delivering. Truly, Cullen, a miracle, a gift from blessed Andraste herself.”

“All right, all right,” he says.

“Don’t be sour,” Aeveth scolds him, going to the stairs, picking up her boots. She takes a seat on the couch. “The training is good for me. And would be for you too, if you joined us. Which you ought. We won’t get a finer warrior than Michel.”

“Yes,” Cullen says dryly, “that does seem to be the prevailing opinion. I will try to come, if only to watch your lesson in eating dirt.”

“So long as you do not wag a finger at Michel once I beg for mercy.” Aeveth stands, smirking.

Cullen gets to his feet, frowning again. “You beg for mercy?”

“Figuratively. And sometimes literally. The man is relentless with training. Says he had worse at the Academie, and we haven't seen a fraction of it.”

“This isn’t the Academie, Aeveth.”

“No, but you wouldn’t begrudge me keeping my skills sharp, or learning new ones. So don’t.” Aeveth rests her hand atop the railing. “Join us. Make it so I am not the only one crying at his feet.” Her wicked smile makes it clear she thinks he’ll be in similar circumstances. Cullen grits his teeth.

“I will do my level best, Aeveth.”

“Excellent, Cullen. Until later, then.” She descends the stairs rapidly, leaves him naked by the bed. The door opens, then shuts loudly. Cullen hears the knocker bounce once, twice.

He sighs again.

He is losing her, and he can’t figure out why.

*** *** ***

“En garde,” Michel says quietly, saluting.

Aeveth plants the butt of her staff into the ground. It is one of her simpler ones, with a weak crystal focus at its head. “Please, Michel, you don’t need to warn - “

The blunted tip of his practice sword presses into the flesh of her throat hard enough to make her swallow. The movement carries the steel with it, moving it up and down a fraction. Aeveth tries not to gag at the sudden nausea. Michel flicks the blade up, applying pressure to the underside of her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. He is taller than Cullen, and she has to stretch her neck farther than her custom.

“You are already dead, your Worship.” 

Aeveth protests. “That’s hardly fair, Michel.”

The point of Michel’s sword hits her just under her breasts, knocks the wind from her, makes her stumble back several paces. Aeveth crumples and folds over, fighting for breath, leaning on her staff.

“Honor does not preclude tactics, your Worship, and you are dead again.”

Aeveth imagines vividly the burn of extreme cold around Michel’s sword hand, the frustration of immobility from being encased in a block of ice. The image forms in a split second; Aeveth holds it in her mind, reaches for the Fade. She has envisioned it, and it must be so. The crackle of ice solidifying makes her smile. She raises her head triumphantly.

Faster than she can react Michel slides forward a step and pivots, kicking out his free foot, sweeping it against the bottom of her staff. Aeveth falls but catches herself before her face can hit the ground; Michel’s shield bash slams into her shoulder and sends her sprawling. Boots appear in her field of view. When she finally manages to look up, she finds Michel’s sword leveled at her neck. The lumpy sphere of ice around his hand does not seem to bother him in the slightest.

“Dead a third time.” Michel withdraws the sword, and with two hard strikes against the edge of his shield, cracks the ice in half. A few more blows and it falls away, leaving him unharmed. "A record, your Worship."

"I'll take that coin now, if you don't mind," says Varric smugly from his place outside the fence. Aeveth rolls away from Michel, uses the momentum to gain her feet. 

She glares at Varric. "You bet against me?"

The dwarf’s laughter rings out across the yard. “Of course I did. Sparkler here had more faith in you, however.”

"I don't even know why I bothered taking the wager," Dorian sighs, resigned. "It's like you never learn."

Aeveth shoots her glare at the other mage. "Shut up, Dorian. I don't see you in the ring with Michel."

Dorian raises a well-shaped eyebrow. "That is because I am not foolish enough to get in with him, Aeveth. As it is, I had hoped you would last longer. You now owe me."

"Your Worship," Michel breaks in smoothly. "If we could return to our task...?"

"Of course," Aeveth replies, turning back to him, drawing upon the Fade. The crystal on her staff pulses with light. "And my name is _Aeveth._ "

Suddenly, a glyph of repulsion flares on the ground. Aeveth detonates it with a clench of her fist and blasts Michel clean off his feet. He turns his fall into a roll, comes back up at the ready. Aeveth swivels her staff, an arcane bolt flashing from the tip. It streaks blue-purple at Michel; he deflects it easily with a tilt of his shield, sends it flying towards the roof of the smithy.

"My turn!" Aeveth says sharply, lightning sparking around her left hand. She passes her staff from right to left, stabs the end of it into the ground, forces the spell into the wood. Instantly lightning erupts from the dirt around Michel, jagged lines forming a cage before collapsing down onto him in one searing, ozone-tinged bolt.

Michel's shout splits the air just as Aeveth takes a step forward, leaving her staff behind. It stays upright, glows foggy with the green of the Fade. Aeveth flings her right hand up, seeing the wayward arcane bolt in her mind. _Return,_ she commands it, knowing how the arc of the trajectory will change, knowing it will be recalled, how it will strike Michel from behind. He is recovering now from her spell, smoke curling up from his armor, straightening into vapor trails when he charges her.

Aeveth reaches behind her and snatches up her staff. Her marked palm pulses painfully when it touches the wood; Aeveth inhales loudly and whirls, switches her grip as she does so. When she faces Michel again she has barely enough time to parry his sword thrust, to throw herself aside to avoid the edge of his shield coming for her head. But Michel has anticipated her move. He kicks the back of her weight-bearing leg, bending her knee. Aeveth drops like a stone, crying out when she lands on the same spot as she did before. A bruise upon a bruise; she will need some of Thom's salve.

There is the faintest hint of a smile around Michel's mouth. The tip of his sword brushes her neck in a kiss. 

"Dead a fourth time, your Worship." Aeveth narrows her eyes at his insolence. "Are we finished for today?"

"No," Aeveth responds, and has the visceral satisfaction of witnessing her arcane bolt punch into Michel's back, bowling him over. Aeveth laughs even as he falls onto her. Maker, he's heavy. She'll have another bruise, for sure. For now, though, she extends her pointer finger, places it on Michel's temple so delicately that she does not disturb a single golden hair. 

"You're dead, chevalier," she whispers.

A moment as their eyes meet. Aeveth's lips curve into a small smile.

" _Now_ we are done, Michel."

He climbs off her and offers his hand. Aeveth leaves her staff on the ground, clasps Michel's hand with her right, and is pulled to her feet. He glances down, then retrieves her weapon.

"Thank you." The crystal is quiescent, but Aeveth can still detect reverberations of the Fade from her earlier spell. The strength of it had surprised her, and not pleasantly. "Are you hurt?"

Michel shakes his head. "Not particularly. Perhaps a bit singed."

"I'm so sorry," Aeveth apologizes immediately. "I'll use a different staff or focus next time. It seems this one is too strong a channel for our purposes."

He raises an eyebrow, but says nothing except, "I appreciate it, your Worship."

"Aeveth."

"Your Worship." A grin.

"Ass." Aeveth tries to scowl. Michel is quite capable of calling her by her name; she's heard him use it a time or two by accident.

"I have never denied it." His grin softens.

Aeveth notices Cullen standing by Dorian, a thunderstruck expression on his face. "Cullen!" she calls lightly. "I hope you didn't bet on me. Though by the looks of it, you did." A stab of pain lances through her left hand; Aeveth barely manages to keep it from showing in her demeanor. "There are no extra perks for loyalty, my love."

"He didn't bet," Varric says, amused. "Smart man. Unlike some others I know." 

Dorian's chuckle is tinged with despair. "Hope springs eternal, I suppose. That's me, ever the optimist."

Aeveth bows to Michel, then walks over to the fence, wiping the sweat from her forehead as she goes. "Surprised at how thoroughly Michel beat me?" 

Cullen frowns at her, but it is Dorian who replies. "No, only shocked at the speed of your defeat. You're slipping, Aeveth."

"I was never that good to start with, Dorian." Aeveth giggles, then winces. "Ow. Maferath's wrinkly ballsack, Cullen, enough. I'm no fighter, you know this."

"I won't dissuade you from self-improvement." But Aeveth can hear the rest of his sentence unspoken.

Aeveth lets out a gusty breath. "I've had enough close calls, don't you think?" She leans her staff against the fence, cants her head to either side until she finds Cullen's eyes, warm and worried. "You said - " She stops abruptly, her glance darting to the left, where Dorian is listening intently. "I think it's time I started looking out for myself."

"I have said as much," Michel says from behind her. "No offense meant, your Worship, but your rift strategy is abysmal."

"None taken, Michel, everyone here has told me the same thing, Cullen included." She bites her lip, gives Cullen a saucy look.

"I have not - not in so many words, not so bluntly," Cullen says, faltering.

"Cullen, you didn't need to say anything. Your expression was enough." She smiles to take the edge off. "I'm glad you came. Thank you." Aeveth then addresses Dorian and Varric. "Show's over, you two. Unless you want a turn with Michel."

Varric laughs. "Not me, Aeveth. You're the only one who has that particular brand of insanity." 

"Makes for good stories, Varric."

"That I can't deny." The dwarf lifts a hand to wave goodbye. "Diamondback tonight. Don't be late."

"Wouldn't miss it." Aeveth crosses her arms over her chest, watches Dorian and Varric leave, gives Cullen a smile when a runner approaches him and leads him toward his tower. When they are a safe distance away, she reaches for her staff.

Only to find Michel has it in his hands. He hefts it experimentally, seeking the balance point. "Will you show me where this should go, your Worship?"

"Don't worry about it," Aeveth says, holding out her hand. 

Michel keeps the staff out of reach. "I insist, your Worship."

"Fine, have it your way." Aeveth uncrosses her arms, wincing when her shoulder moves. Just standing still for a few minutes in the chilliness of early spring has made her stiffen up. She brings Michel to the armory storage, gestures to the dozens of staves racked neatly on the wall.

Michel finds a spot for the staff and turns to her. "You were distracted today."

"Just an off day," Aeveth replies as easily as she can manage. "We all have them, even you."

"So I do. Today was not one of them, however." Michel comes close, takes her hand, turns it so that her palm faces up. His thumbs slide over the lines. Three times he does this, following her heart, her mind, her life. "The mark is here?" he asks her, thumbpads coming to a rest in the center of her hand, his eyes narrowing with focus. Aeveth feels the intensity of his regard through his touch.

"It's there," Aeveth says quietly, taking her right forefinger, drawing a fourth line. It runs over his nails.

His thumbs press in places along her hand, massaging. Aeveth is reluctant to pull away once she realizes he is doing it on purpose. Her hand returns to rest, her fingers curling in slightly. She exhales slowly, parceling out her air, moves her hand away, but Michel's hands tighten and squeeze, his thumbs flexing back, the distal joints digging, pulling, drawing her tightness out. "You are tense," he tells her simply. "I noticed you using your left hand less."

Aeveth frowns. "Michel, I'm right-handed."

"Less than usual." His thumbs keep rubbing, finding her discomfort, increasing it until it peaks and drains away. "Does it bother you?"

"No," she replies almost immediately, lying.

"I don't believe you," he says, "but if that is what you want others to think, I won't say anything." He lets go of her little by little.

"Maker," Aeveth mutters, not wanting him to stop. "Was it obvious?"

One shoulder lifts elegantly in a shrug. "I doubt anyone else saw."

"Good," Aeveth says shortly. "Were you actually hurt by the lightning?"

Michel's lips press into a line. The pressure of his silence weighs uncomfortably as he thinks. Carefully, he undoes the straps of his vambrace, pushes up the sleeve of his arming doublet.

Aeveth's gasp is ragged. Michel's sword arm is red and blistered from elbow to wrist, already beginning to ooze lymph. The weak light coming in from the door gives the burn a dull shine. 

"It'll be fine," Michel says quickly. "I will see it tended."

"I'm so sorry," Aeveth says from behind her fingers. "Michel, I didn't realize - I'm sorry. It must hurt abominably. I'm so sorry." The anchor, she thinks. It had drawn more of the Fade than she had wanted or expected, had in that moment acted unpredictably, uncontrollably.

Aeveth knows without a doubt that she can't tell anyone yet, least of all Cullen.

"It isn't the worst injury I have ever received," Michel murmurs. "Not by far. Don't worry."

"Please go see the healers right now," she says to Michel. "I will call off our bouts for the time being. I'll be too bruised and sore."

Aeveth doesn't know how Michel can smile or laugh through the pain, but he does. "Yes," he says, "for that you can tell the truth, and none will be the wiser."

Aeveth nods, still feeling guilty. "Go to the healers, then. If they ask, you can tell them you joined me for kitchen duty, and were burned by my carelessness. I'll see you tonight in the tavern."

Michel bows slightly, then rolls his sleeve down without so much as a wince. "Yes, your Worship."

Exasperated, Aeveth replies, "My name is Aeveth."

She catches a glimpse of a cheeky grin when he turns and walks toward the door. His words float back, and upon hearing them, Aeveth suppresses her growl.

"Yes, your Worship."


	2. Chapter 2

“Ow.  Ow!   _Ow!_ ”  Aeveth pounds her fist against the bed.  “Cullen!”

“I was not,” Cullen says tersely, though the touch of his fingers belies the emotion, “the one who was adamant on training with Michel.  You love it, you said.  I quote, ‘We won’t get a finer warrior than Michel de Chevin.’  Well?”  Cullen feels the mentholated, pungent salve just beneath his fingernails when he dips them back into the tub.  Aeveth flinches when he begins applying it.  “You were correct about being black and blue, at least.”

Aeveth whines as the salve is spread over the impressively purple bruise on her hip.  “Maker,” she groans, the exhortation constricted.  “I’ve changed my mind.  I don’t love – ow!”  She twitches away from him, grabs a pillow, smushes it against her face.  Cullen rubs the salve in to the music of Aeveth’s yowls.

“Bit dramatic, are we?” Cullen mutters, his fingertips feather-light on her hipbone.  She responds warm and easy to his touch and rolls onto her back.  Aeveth lifts the pillow long enough to suck down a breath when Cullen resumes his ministrations.  Her hands clutch it so tightly that they disappear, swallowed in a cloud of white.  She answers him with exaggerated caterwauls.

“It hurts,” she says plaintively once her tomcat imitation is finished.

Cullen is not inclined towards sympathy, not after that demonstration.  “I did caution you,” he says, eyeballing the circumference of the bruise beneath Aeveth’s breastbone.  The color is an exact match to a ripe plum.  “How did you come by this one?”

Aeveth contorts herself into a strange shape, trying to avoid getting salve on the bedsheets.  “Michel about skewered me,” she says, giving up with a huff, flinging her arms and legs out like a sea star.  She makes a face.  “That was right after he laid my throat open.”

“So he slit your throat, ran you through, and then fell on you?  And you liked it?”

There’s that smile again.  Cullen swallows, his skin tightening into goosebumps.  Half-skewered she, and yet she had given Michel so casually the thing Cullen wanted to keep most for himself.

“Well,” Aeveth says, the smile flitting away, “didn’t I just revise my opinion?”

He frowns.  “I suppose you did.”  Cullen finds the lid, fits it back over the tub.  “Will you take any healing?”

“And let them know how badly he whipped me?”  Aeveth winces, her left hand tightening again on the pillow.  “That’s something the Inquisition does not need to know about its leader.”

“As if,” Cullen says, more gently than he feels, “rumor would not have spread immediately.”  He watches as she folds her lips in and bites down.  “Maker, Aeveth.  I’m not even touching you.  If it hurts that badly, go see a healer.”

“I will wear my bruises with pride, thank you,” she replies to him, giving him an arch look.  “If I recall correctly, when I offered Thom an elfroot potion after Cassandra nearly killed him, he refused.  You approved.  So did she.”

“This isn’t the same.”

“I don’t see why not.”  She lays the pillow over her face again, but her sigh is audible even beneath it.

“You’re being deliberately obtuse now.  You aren’t a warrior,” Cullen points out.  “And you weren’t taking penance.”

She folds the pillow in half, partially revealing her face, and gives him a strained grin.  “Allow me to bear my suffering the natural way, Cullen.”

He snorts loudly, reaches out with his clean hand, and unfolds the pillow back over her head.  “Incorrigible woman, as usual.  I won’t argue with your stubbornness any longer.”

From behind the pillow, Aeveth says, “One of my most redeeming qualities.  Be sure to return that to Master Dennet immediately.”

Cullen rises to his feet, picks up a hand towel, and cleans the rest of the salve from his skin.  “I was going to go right now, actually.”  He glances out the window.  “And seeing as you are in no condition to do anything, I will bring back dinner from the kitchens.”

“I’m not in no condition!” Aeveth protests.  “Just poor condition.”

He snickers, then leans down and gives her a quick kiss on her shoulder.  “You are in no condition,” he repeats.  “I’ll be back shortly.”

“I’ll be here,” Aeveth says, voice muffled and faint, far away.

*** *** ***

Aeveth makes her way carefully to the tavern once the last bells have been rung, her right hand curled tightly around Cullen’s elbow.  Every step sends pain radiating dully from the bruise on her hip, and as they make their way down the steps of the Great Hall Aeveth keeps her skirts clutched in her left hand.  Tomorrow she will feel better, she thinks, a wayward hiss escaping from between her teeth.

“He really shouldn’t have hit you so hard,” Cullen says, covering her hand with his briefly, pulling it away so he can return a salute from the soldiers in the training yard.

“Perhaps I just bruise easily.”  Aeveth’s rejoinder is purposefully light.  If she acts as if the pain is nothing, it will become nothing.  At least the anchor is no longer an open knife-wound on her palm, its aberrant behavior halted for now.  She hopes it has been a singular incident.

Cullen raises an eyebrow as he lifts his arm to push open the door.  “Not in my experience, you don’t.”

Aeveth’s laugh is short.  “Can’t get anything past you, I see.”

The door opens and sounds wash out, carried on a current of warm air.  Aeveth inhales it all in, smiling as it eddies around her.  She can almost touch the voices: Iron Bull’s, deep like his tankard, with the pull and thickness of umber mead; Dorian’s, honeyed and rich, smooth, crushed velvet.  Varric’s is easy to pick out, the gravelly vibrations of his voice tangible above all else; his laugh is loud and full.  

“Buttercup!  Pretty’s got you there.  Double Divine wins it over the Chantry sisters.  What were you thinking?”  Varric laughs again.  Aeveth walks in on Sera’s scowl.

“That’s shite!” she declares.  “You’re all supposed to believe me.”

“My apologies, Miss Sera.”

“Apologies my  _arse._ “

“You can’t lie worth a damn,” says Iron Bull.

“Well maybe this entire time I’ve been  _pretending_  to be bad at it so that when I actually do it you won’t know!”

“We’ll still know, Sera.  Your tells are obvious.”

“Yeah?  What are they then?”

“All right, so,” Bull says, “you tap your fingers nervously – “

“That’s stupid, I do not!”

Michel snorts at the exchange, reaching out to collect his winnings from the center of the table.  He glances up at Aeveth when she draws near, his eyes warm and gray in the dim lighting of the tavern.  “Your Worship.”

“Room for two more?” Aeveth asks, ignoring the spirited conversation.  She unclasps her hooded cloak as Michel shuffles over on the long bench, then gathers it and her skirts and sits gingerly.  On her other side, Cole is making space for Cullen.  Aeveth jerks her head in Varric’s direction.  “Deal me in, if you please.  It looks like someone has to rescue your coin from Michel’s purse.”

Michel gives her an amused smile.  “And would that person be you, your Worship?”

Aeveth giggles.  “Of course.  Did you think Cullen could do it?”

“I might,” Cullen says, hovering a hand over the table, waiting for Varric to send cards sliding his way.  The wood thumps softly under his palm when he drops it, trapping the cards underneath.

“Getting better at Wicked Grace doesn’t mean you’re better at Diamondback.”  Aeveth keeps her smile on as she turns up the corners of the cards and peers underneath.  “What’s the ante, Varric?”

“Two gold.”

“Two gold?!” Cullen splutters.  “Are you mad?”

Aeveth plucks two gold coins from Michel’s hoard.  “I’m in.”

“Your Worship, that’s -“

“Consider it a loan, Michel.”  Aeveth flicks the coins into the center of the table; they clink against the four already there.  “Which I will pay back doubly within three rounds.  Cullen?”

He frowns.  “I fold.”  He passes his cards back to Varric.  “Maker’s breath, two gold.”

“Your Worship,” Michel begins again, and this time Aeveth lets him continue, the pleasant expression still on her face.  “You came without a purse again, didn’t you?”

“I’m sorry, it’s awfully noisy in here.  Didn’t hear what you said.”

“She did,” Cole murmurs.  “Purposeful, purseless, painful, distractions would help.”

“Cole,” Aeveth says evenly, “are you going to ante?”

“Oh.”  Cole dips his head as if listening to someone.  “No.”

“Right, well then.”  Aeveth watches as Sera and Bull add to the pot.  Varric raps the table with a knuckle when it comes back around to him; Aeveth follows suit.  

“If there are no other bets…”  Varric scoops the tip of his thumb underneath his top card.  “…let’s see ‘em.”

The card flip is met with groans.  “Andraste on the pyre,” Varric announces, and finds himself showered with cards.

Aeveth grins, then shrugs.  “They call me the Herald, so it’s fitting I get Andraste.  Anyone else want to fold before I take more money?  I have a loan to repay.”

Michel gives her an appraising look.  “With interest.”

“You can’t change the terms on me!”

“With all due respect your Worship, there were no terms set at the time, but as your financier I believe it prudent to set them now.  I expect double the principal as you have promised, with half as much again for interest.”  His mouth twitches up in a slight smile.

Varric pushes back from the table, laughing.  “With that kind of wheeling and dealing, Pretty, I should offer you a contract as a moneylender.”

Aeveth mock-glares to her left.  The corners of Michel’s eyes are crinkled with amusement.  “No deal, serah,” she huffs.  “That’s highway robbery.”

“I daresay you deserve it,” Cullen cuts in.

A dramatic gasp, right hand held to her heaving chest.  “Betrayal!  Treason!  I am surrounded by traitors!”

“Take the deal, your Worship.”  Michel rests a finger on a coin and slides it lazily to and fro.  “Else you default on the loan, and your winnings become mine.”

Aeveth glances around the table and notes how everyone is watching.  “Fine,” she says after a moment.  She could go back and forth with Michel all day; in the beginning, it had surprised her how smoothly they had fallen into companionship.  But now, she decides, is not the time for banter.  “We have an accord.  Is anyone else going to fold so that I may pay Michel back without delay?”

Iron Bull chuckles.  “And make it easy on you, boss?  Not a chance.”

“Don’t be cocky, Bull.  I see your king.  From what’s on the table, you can’t have better than a pair.  Well, I’ve the Divine in my hand.”  Aeveth tilts her head to the side and smiles disarmingly.  “All you’re going to do is lose your money.  I suggest you give up.”

Sera’s laughter is always piling atop itself, as if it cannot wait to escape her.  “Why’d you tell us what you have?  You tellin’ the truth?”

“Of course I am.”  Beneath the table, Aeveth feels the weight of Cullen’s hand on her knee.  “I’m just being…”

“…considerate,” Michel finishes for her, and slides his cards over to Varric.  “Gracious and considerate.  I shall keep my money this round, and await your repayment.”

Bull narrows his eye at her.  “What do you think, Dorian?  Fold?”

Dorian shrugs.  The space in front of him on the table is empty but for a few coins.  His answer is obvious.  “It’s your money.”

“That it is.  I’m staying in.  Though I should know better.  She probably did the math.”

Aeveth bites down on her tongue, lets it show as she wrinkles her nose and smiles.  Beside her, Cullen grins.  “It’s a good thing I’ve no other coin, or else you’d be hurting as you matched my next wager.”  Aeveth’s left hand inches towards the stack in front of Michel.

Without even looking he slaps it away, and the entire table erupts into laughter.  “My apologies, your Worship,” Michel says once it quiets, looking to her, his gaze steady and serious.  “Are you all right?”

Aeveth grins lopsidedly, knowing he isn’t asking about the physical contact.  The slap had barely registered; Michel had hit her in such a way as to maximize noise.  “I have suffered worse and lived.”

Cullen coughs into his hand, his other tightening upon her knee.  Aeveth turns her smile on him, letting her expression soften.  Pink liquid, she thinks; yes, she has suffered worse at her own hand.  Half-dead for three days, Cullen’s worry and anger a constant low buzz during her waking hours.  The vague memories of her recuperation period are not fond ones.  With a pang, Aeveth realizes Cullen has been in that helpless position far more times than she cares to admit, more times than is fair.   _Orlais_ , a little voice whispers.   _Halamshiral._ She had won security for the Inquisition at the price of their relationship, and half a year later they were not yet done paying.

There are no regrets.  As Inquisitor, she would sacrifice anything to keep her people safe.

Without another word Aeveth flips over her second card.

“Divinity on the table,” Varric says.  “Inquisitor’s pot.”

“Thank you all for indulging me,” Aeveth chirps, putting cheer into her voice, dragging coins towards herself.  She splits the pile three ways, sending six coins back to Michel, keeping two for herself, and giving two to Cullen, who just sighs and shakes his head at her.  

“If you don’t want those, I’ll be happy to take them back.”

“No,” Cullen murmurs.  “I’ll lose them quickly enough, I think.”

Aeveth smiles and flicks her cards back to Varric for shuffling, then straightens, pulling her cloak up from her lap.  “I’m going to make Cabot do his job,” she announces, getting to her feet.  “Would anyone like wine?  Cullen?  Michel?  Dorian?”

Dorian drains the rest of his glass and sets it down delicately.  “I do not even know why you’re bothering with asking.”

Aeveth sighs.  “You’re right, how silly of me to think you would say no.  Something for you, and a red for Cullen.  And you, Michel?”

Michel’s one-shouldered shrug is liquid and elegant, barely shifting the creases of his clothing.  He is clad simply, the billowing sleeves of his Orlesian-style shirt crisply white against the amber leather of his high-collared vest.  Aeveth notices the fine-tooled patterning over his chest, and the double rows of buttons that march down the front.

He stands as well, and Aeveth notes with approval the deep cerulean of his breeches, how they disappear into tall, well-polished riding boots.  “I have little opinion on the matter, your Worship,” he says, “but I  _would_  like something, so I will go with you.”

They leave the table to its conversation.  Cabot is behind the bar wiping down glasses, and from the expression on his face Aeveth thinks he could just as easily be cleaning a carcass or talking to his mother.  “Cabot,” Aeveth calls conversationally, going to the corner and hanging her cloak up on a hook.  “We’re going to need some wine.”

“I’m going to need specifics,” the dwarven bartender replies flatly as she bellies up to the bar.

“Two glasses of red, not terrible, a glass of sweet white for myself, and…”  Aeveth looks to Michel.

“Surprise me,” Michel says.

“Two reds, your usual, and whatever,” Cabot repeats, setting his glass down with a sharp clack.  “Might take a minute.”  The dwarf disappears into the back room.

Michel leans a hip against the counter and surveys her, his eyes traveling her body from shoulders to toes.  “A dress, your Worship?”

Aeveth’s mouth flattens into a line.  It’s true, Aeveth is wearing a dress of Thierry’s make, boat-necked and dark green, a medium-weight cotton just thick enough to keep off the chill.  The silhouette of it is slender despite the strange, wide sleeves that attach from her waist to her shoulder; the color of it is flattering on her golden-brown skin, and Aeveth is grateful at how comfortable it is, how freely she can move while wearing it.

“It doesn’t compress the bruises the way my arming doublet does.  Don’t be alarmed.  In a few days I shall be back to wearing my plain nightmare, as Dorian says.”

“That is one of the kinder ways he has referred to it.”  Michel glances in Dorian’s direction.

She giggles.  “That much is true.  What else have you heard him say?”

“Nothing I care to repeat here,” Michel says, genial.  “The spirit of the sentiment remains the same.”

Aeveth is about to say something else when searing pain splits her palm.  With a sharp gasp she clutches it to her chest, bites down on her lip, closes her eyes to the fire in her hand, the pain robbing her of breath.  Maker, but it feels like a spike being driven through the center of her palm; it feels as if something is holding the edges of a wound, tearing her flesh open millimeter by millimeter.  Aeveth’s jaw clenches as she fights not to make a sound, and everything falls away as her focus draws to a single point, her concentration and will bent to one simple task: show nothing.

“Your Worship.”  The pain subsides slowly, and with it, sounds and awareness return.  “Your Worship?  Inquisitor?”  She can hear the concern in Michel’s voice.  When she opens her eyes, she sees that Michel has put himself beside her, blocking the line of sight from her to the table.  Aeveth’s inhale stutters and starts through her throat.  Pale green mist curls up from her clenched fist, smelling of the charged air before a rain.

Movement catches her eye.  Dorian has his head up, alerted, his eyes narrowed as they sweep the common room, as if hunting for a scent.  Aeveth hears Bull speak, but cannot make out the words, only the rising tones of his voice, questioning.

She turns away quickly, faces the bar.  Cabot has not yet returned; Aeveth exhales shakily, relieved.  Her hand still throbs with phantom pain, but when she opens it she finds her skin smooth, unmarred.

“It happened again.”  Not a question, a statement.  Michel grounds his elbows on the bar top, his body language relaxed and nonchalant, but his eyes are dark with worry.  “Do you know why?”

Aeveth shakes her head left-right, just a fraction.  “I don’t know.  I don’t know.”  She swallows, then takes a deep breath to compose herself as Cabot reappears, three bottles held so tightly in his hands that they jut out like porcupine quills.  He sets them on the counter with graceless thuds, retrieves four wineglasses.

“Has it been an ongoing project?” Michel asks, as if he is making polite conversation.  “Or is this something new?”

To her credit, she does not flex her hand as she picks up two of the glasses.  “Let’s say it is newish.  I only had inklings of it in the last week or so, but the idea has solidified rather suddenly since this morning.”  Michel takes the other two glasses; they rest gently in his hands.  “Of course the implementation of it leaves me with many questions.  There will be much research.”

They sit back down.  Cullen lifts his chin, meeting her eyes.  “Research?” he asks, having overheard the tail end of her sentence.

“Just a bit of extra work in the laboratory, nothing more.”  Their hands brush against each other as he takes the wine.  Cullen’s skin is cool, dry.

“Try not to spend all your waking hours in there,” he says, acquiring a note of mild, if fond, nagging.

“I’ll do my best.  Varric!”  Aeveth takes a large sip of her wine.  “Are you ready for the next round?”

Varric deals to the scattershot sound of coins striking wood.  Aeveth watches the faces around the table before peeking at her own cards.  It’s a middling hand; with only two gold to play with, Aeveth opts to sit out.  She clicks her tongue and pushes her cards away, then takes Cullen’s and sends them back to Varric.

Sera scowls and mutters to herself, but her ante joins the pile in the center of the table.  Aeveth takes another sip of wine as cards are revealed.

“You sure about that, Buttercup?” Varric asks after Sera matches Bull’s bet.

“Yeah Sera, are you sure?”  Bull grins.

“Totally sure,” she responds, but she taps her fingers on her cards anyway.  Aeveth keeps her face straight as Sera continues.  “Doubling it.”

“All right,” Bull says gamely, “I guess I’ll match.”

Varric chuckles, then throws in as well.  “I have to see this.  Ready?”

A chorus of groans and swears rises from around the table.  Aeveth smiles to herself when she sees the Divine.

“Oh, what the shit,” Bull says, amazed.  Sera’s grin is wide and cheesy as she leans forward and sweeps coins into her arms.  “She actually got us.”

“See?” says Sera smugly.  “I was  _pretending_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of lighthearted fun before things start going downhill (of course, it's me writing this). Comments are always loved and appreciated, and I do my best to reply to every one.


	3. Chapter 3

Aeveth wakes slow and groggy under an offensive beam of sunlight, the heat searing her skin.  She gropes for the edge of the covers and tries to pull them up over her face, but is met with resistance.  In her crabby, half-lucid state, her temper sparks quickly, the fuse of it made shorter by the sharp ache in her palm.  She yanks on the sheets.

Nothing happens.

“Fucking - “ she growls, yanking again to no avail, “Maker-damned, bloody, _fucking Maker_ -”  Cullen has tucked the sheets tightly around the foot of the mattress.  A longtime habit, she knows, and normally Aeveth simply tolerates it, but her sleep has been poor in the last month and all she wants is to cover her head and try to get more rest, and not be stymied by something so trivial as properly made beds.

Two hands this time.  Perhaps she will be met with success.  Aeveth grits her teeth and heaves.

“Bloody _fucking_ templar training _Maker shit_ -”  Aeveth gives up with a frustrated snarl, thumps her face straight into the mattress, and lies defeated in the light.  The sun feels viciously triumphant.   _Prick_ , she thinks.

“If you are going to blaspheme so flagrantly,” says Cullen, and at the sound of his voice Aeveth makes a grumpy noise and digs her head more deeply into the bed, “you should make a regular habit of visiting the chantry.”  He crests the top of the stairs, the wooden thunking of his steps turning to shuffles on stone and carpet.

Aeveth scowls further, if possible.  Cullen knows damned well that she never prays.  “Leave me to my alleged heresy.”

“What was that?”  She hears him coming closer.  The edge of the mattress sinks beneath his weight.  Aeveth feels the gentle brush of his fingers on her temple when he tucks her hair behind her ear.

She heaves a sigh and turns her head, opens her eyes to the sight of his leather-clad hip and thigh, bites back her unkindness.  “Nothing, my love.  Just morning irritability, that’s all.”

“Afternoon irritability.”  Cullen peels the covers off, and Aeveth whines at the insult.  “You need to be out of bed, love.  I know you’re exhausted, but I cannot hold off your duties any longer.”

Exhausted.  Aeveth is exhausted, and has let Cullen think her dreams are to blame.  The constant throb of her anchored hand brings with it guilt.  She should have told him when it first started; she should tell him now.  But she keeps coming up with excuses.  

Like today, for example.  Thom is leaving for Weisshaupt, and along with him, her cousin Taka.

"The horses?" Aeveth asks, rubbing her eyes.

"Saddlebags are being packed as we speak."

"Birds?"  She yawns, tears beading on her eyelashes.

"Missives already sent to each outpost from here to Ghislain."

"Honor guard?"

Cullen helps her sit, frowning slightly.  He regards her seriously.  "Who do you think I am, love?  Maker's breath.  Have a little faith."

Aeveth shoves the heels of her palms into her eyes and grinds mercilessly.  "I'm sorry," she says, the pain surging with each rush of blood, the frequency increasing on account of being upright.  Scouring her own eyes off her face provides only a small measure of distraction.  

"I'm just - you're right."  She looks up, tries to smile.  "Are you the commander or are you the commander?  Cassandra chose well."

"Thank you."  Cullen stands and peers around the room.  "Where is your arming doublet?"

"On the floor somewhere."  Aeveth puts her face back into her hands.  The anchor flares, and Aeveth tries to put her palm inside her skull.  The pungent sharpness of it is strong in her nose.

"Aeveth."  Cullen's weight on the bed again, his arms around her.  "Aeveth.  Aeveth!  What's wrong?"

She keeps her eyes shut as Cullen holds her close, her desperation trembling and tight in her.  His embrace loosens when her shaking stops, but he does not release her.  Aeveth lets out a careful breath, pulls her hands away from her head, and stays silent.

"Andraste's flaming sword.  Are they truly that bad?  You haven't been..."  She feels the press of his lips on the crown of her head.  "Have you gone to your sanctuary lately?"

Aeveth sighs, drained and worn in the aftermath of the rush.  "No."

"You need to go.  Commander's orders.  Once the wardens have been properly seen off.  I'll take you there myself if I have to."  There is no mistaking the steel in his voice, the concern he wields.

"I'll go," Aeveth whispers.  "I promise.  I'll go.  You don't need to escort me."  She shifts, trying to curl into Cullen.  But no matter how she breathes him in or fits her forehead into the crook of his neck, she finds no comfort.  The pain has stolen that pleasure from her.

“Help me get dressed?” Aeveth asks eventually.  She should tell Cullen, but first things first.

“Of course,” he says, and gets to his feet.

*** *** ***

Cullen watches Aeveth hug her cousin Taka without reservation, her arms thrown around him, his air escaping him in a wheeze.  As tired as she is, she displays for half of Skyhold a level of affection and emotion that is normally kept for her private chambers.  Aeveth is personable and friendly, concerned for the welfare of all the people under her protection, forges bonds quickly and engages in pranks, but Cullen is acutely aware of the shrouded layers beneath and how closely she holds them in confidence.  The number of people she lets in can be numbered on one hand.  Cullen snorts softly through his nose.  Himself, Dorian, Cassandra, perhaps Solas.  Four people with a high enough security clearance to reach Aeveth’s heart.  Cullen notes wryly that there is room for one more.

The love she bears for Taka is practically tangible, and seeing it so openly makes Cullen somewhat uncomfortable.  Aeveth’s family, prior to Taka’s first appearance at Skyhold, has never been up for discussion.  Cullen can’t remember a single time she has mentioned her parents without prompting.  That they exist and are alive is all he knows.  He had asked her once when she was sent to the Circle; they had been abed, and at that stage of their relationship Cullen was still bent on discovering all the hidden riches of her skin.  The crease of her right elbow bears a once-thick scar, faded and softened with time, a white slash across the blue-green of her vein.  She was six, she had said.  She remembered the largeness of the templar’s hands, and crying for her father.  When that hadn’t worked, she demanded her mother.

Neither of them had come of course, she’d murmured, pushing her sleeve down over her arm, barring the knowledge of the scar from his lips.  She’d set his head on her bosom instead, and he had permitted the distraction.

In truth, Cullen cannot fault her for walling off that part of her life.  He himself is notoriously stingy with information about his past, much a failure at communication with his siblings.  Mia especially takes it personally, as her occasional letters show.  He has improved in the last year or two, but the same cannot be said for Aeveth.  She has a younger brother, Kelith.  It is mildly disconcerting that he had found that information in one of Leliana’s dossiers.

Not for the first time Cullen thinks about the impact of living in the Circle, how it has shaped them both.  Aeveth refuses to divulge anything about Ostwick save for statements like _it was a typical Circle, nothing would surprise you_ and _at least it wasn’t the Gallows_.  Vivienne likely has a better idea, but the currency of information flows both ways, and Cullen is disinclined to submit to the toll of Aeveth’s judgment.  They are living in peaceful times, however, the Inquisition running smoothly.  It is perhaps the perfect moment to address those things buried behind him.

It is perhaps also the perfect moment to address Aeveth’s past; their hurts are related.  Having Taka temporarily in the Inquisition has made Cullen curious about Aeveth as a child; it’s difficult for him to picture her as anything but large brown eyes and gravitas. When she and Sera pull off practical jokes Cullen thinks he can see backwards in time, but the glimpse is all too brief.  “What was she like?” Cullen had asked Taka when Aeveth was out of earshot.

“Loving,” the warden had responded immediately, a half-smile stealing across his face.  “She had a sunny disposition.”

Aeveth rises on tiptoes and kisses Taka on the cheek, then hugs him again.  This close together Cullen can see the family resemblance.  Cheekbones, he thinks, cheekbones and strong, square jawlines to go with the same black hair, brown eyes, and honeyed skin.  Taka is tall and lean, shares with Aeveth her lithe slenderness, falls into laughter as naturally as he shoots a bow, plays the Game with such breezy insouciance that one forgets he too has a mind always at work.  Between his looks and his charm, it is no wonder most of Skyhold has turned out to wish him safe travels.

“You had better write,” Aeveth says, low and fierce.  Cullen is only able to hear it because of his proximity to the pair.  “I must know of your whereabouts.  I mislike the silence from Weisshaupt.”

"That is precisely why we must go," Taka replies.  "Besides, Carver misses his big sister."

Cullen can't help himself.  He laughs, hears Varric mirroring it from behind him.  It had been strangely good to see a familiar face again, especially since the last time he had spoken to Carver was... well, when Carver had found out about Cullen's relationship with Aeveth, Cullen had just managed to avoid the spray of ale.  Carver's questions had come out in croaks of strangled disbelief, and Cullen had answered as best he could.  He was changed now.  Clearly.  Meredith’s influence was years gone.

"Give the Champion our fond regards," Cullen says, extending a hand.  Carver clasps it, his hand firm upon Cullen's forearm.  Carver glances down, then raises his eyebrows meaningfully at the flaming sword upon Cullen's vambrace.

"I've got something for her if you don't mind, Junior."  Varric steps up and holds out a box wrapped in plain brown paper.  "It's not breakable, so no worries."  Varric settles his hands on his hips.  "Write every now and then, all right?  There's a story between the three of you.  I can feel it."

Taka shakes Varric's hand, his eyes alight with good humor.  "In time, Master Tethras.  In time.  We have obligations to fulfill first."

Cullen automatically looks at Blackwall, who is standing beside Master Dennet and the small pack of horses Aeveth has selected for the trip.  Blackwall is stern and stoic, already looking every inch the warden he will soon be, provided he survives the Joining.  His silvered armor glitters regally in the sun.

"Thom."  Aeveth's voice is warm.  She goes to him, takes his hand, and brings him to where Taka and Carver stand.  "You cannot hide from this.  You have served the Inquisition well, and we are proud of you.  I won't have you walking through the gate with the pack animals."

"My lady," Blackwall says quietly before they embrace.  "It has been my honor to serve."

Aeveth's mouth purses, and it's a moment before she speaks again.  "What will we do without you, Thom?" she asks, raw and vulnerable.  They both turn to face Sera.

"Take care of her, as much as you can."  Blackwall's face breaks into a smile.  "Pick out some wenches for her."

"Won't be as much fun without you," Sera says mournfully.

Without missing a beat, Aeveth says, "I'll tell Cabot to hire some new ones."

“Won’t help.”

“No, Sera,” Aeveth murmurs, “I doubt much will.  Thom is a part of the family.”  At that, Cullen glances at Michel, who is standing as far as possible from Blackwall without showing blatant disrespect.  It had taken time and angry words from Aeveth before Michel’s dual loyalties to Orlais and the Inquisition stopped warring; the former chevalier had eventually lapsed into a grudging, if icy, acceptance of Thom Rainier.  Cullen knows Blackwall’s departure will ultimately result in a more harmonious existence among the inner circle, but he remains suspicious of Michel’s motivations.  Cullen is well-acquainted with the intricacies of casting away long-held roles, though he is cognizant of the fact that Michel’s honor code will not allow him to express his misgivings, whatever misgivings he has about the Inquisition harboring an Orlesian criminal.

Aeveth addresses Blackwall, lays a hand on his arm.  “You’ll come back afterwards, won’t you?  The Inquisition could house an official contingent of Grey Wardens.”  Her eyes flick over to Taka.  “As well as an official Warden-Liaison.”

“I would not mind in the slightest, but we need to speak to the First.  After the events of last year…”  Taka pauses to grimace.  “We shall see.”

Aeveth nods.  Cullen can read her reluctance in the set of her shoulders as she prepares her final words.  Truly, Cullen is sorry to see Blackwall go.  They are friends of a sort, best when working in the battlefield camaraderie that links warriors together.  They do not speak much, but of all the soldiers in the Inquisition Cullen trusts Blackwall the most to protect his back.  

“Wardens Takaleth Trevelyan and Carver Hawke,” Aeveth says, cool and chesty, composed and professional.  “Legionnaire Rith and Warden-Recruit Rainier, travel swiftly and safely.  The resources of the Inquisition are at your disposal.  Farewell, friends, and may your trip be uneventful.”

Master Dennet brings the horses forward; Aeveth laces her fingers together and gives Rith a leg up onto his mount.  She puts her back to the assembled crowd, but not before Cullen catches the shine of tear tracks on her cheeks.

“You have our gratitude and thanks, Inquisitor,” Taka says, formal.  He then drops his voice and bends toward his cousin.  “Bye, Beth-beth.”

Aeveth smiles sadly and keeps it as the party passes under the gate, flanked by their honor guard.

“Inquisition!”  Cullen raises his voice until it rings with command.  “Salute!”

There is a flash of movement, and Cullen’s head snaps to the side.  Sera darts forward, cups her hands around her mouth, draws a great breath.  “Hey Beardy!” she yells at Blackwall’s retreating form. "BITS UP!"

Blackwall swivels in his saddle, and his answering shout echoes off of Skyhold’s stone walls.  

“FACE DOWN!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments always loved and appreciated. This should be the last chapter of setup, I think!


	4. Chapter 4

“How about Lysette?”

“You jest.”

“She is as loyal as any, Michel.”

Michel blinks once, his face deliberately blank. “Loyalty matters little in these circumstances, your Worship.”

Aeveth sighs and flops backwards onto the ground. The grass is cool and welcoming, tendrils of it brushing against her cheeks. She smells the brightness of spring, sharp and light green. The hint of helleborus on the wind is the only blemish on an otherwise beautiful afternoon. Aeveth wrinkles her nose.

“How about Gavin, then?”

“Too young.” Michel remains sitting against the trunk of a birch, his scabbarded sword close at hand, nestled by a root. He pulls up a knee and lays his arm over it, then closes his eyes for a second. To any passers-by he seems at ease, but Aeveth is well aware of how quickly he springs to action. He is alert and listening, even here in the valley below Skyhold, where it is safe. She supposes he has a reason; it is solely the two of them. Her other companions are all busy.

Aeveth finds a leaf with her left hand and holds it up, admiring. She twirls the stem, observing the way its spade shape catches the air, how beautifully serrated the edges are. The conversation has lapsed, and the fault lies with her, but Michel is unhurried and patient, comfortable with her empty spaces.

“He’s twenty-five at the very least. Not that young.” Her hand begins twitching, shaking the leaf. Aeveth drops it, laces her fingers together over her stomach, and tries not to think about the pain. "You were twenty. Or perhaps twenty-one. Does my memory fail me? Twenty-two? Twenty-four? Nineteen." She pauses for dramatic effect. "No, thirty."

Aeveth can tell by the stiffness of Michel's posture that he is trying not to laugh. "I was twenty, and the best of my class."

"Unequivocally?"

"Yes, your Worship. Unequivocally." He glances at her, a small smile gracing his lips. "There is little doubt in my mind that with more experience, Gavin would be suitable.”

“Michel.” Aeveth frowns. “Do not underestimate him. He is a veteran of the mage-templar war. He survived the fall of his Circle, and was in Val Royeaux when the White Spire fell. What more would you ask of him?”

Michel’s eyes narrow just a hair as his attention is drawn to something. “It seems you have already reached a decision, your Worship.”

“Perhaps I have,” she says tartly. “How about Knight-Captain Briony?”

“She would do, if she were available.” Michel reaches over and takes her hand, shifts to face her. “Her skills are admirable.” Carefully he uncurls her fingers, smooths open her palm, presses his hand to hers to quell the trembling. His fingers curve over the tops of hers, half intertwining; his skin is warm and smooth. When her hand stills, Michel changes to a loose, two-handed grip. Aeveth closes her eyes to the kneading of his thumbs.

“It’s good to know at least one of our remaining warriors is up to your ridiculously high standards, Michel.” She exhales deliberately as the pain lessens, opens her eyes so that she can smile gratefully. Short of elfroot, there isn’t much that helps decrease the pain. But the massaging seems to work, at least a little. During the bad flares, the only thing Aeveth wishes for is unconsciousness. “When you are indisposed, I shall remember to call upon Briony as your substitute.”

"The standards are high because the stakes are high, and I doubt I will be indisposed, your Worship.” 

Aeveth does not bother arguing. Her mortality is not a topic she enjoys discussing. “What if you fall ill?" she asks, teasing. "Catch cold? The healers are not likely to do much about that, or a mild fever. The surgeon will leech you. Or drill a hole in your head. Balance your humors.” 

"My humors are well enough balanced without a chirurgeon's meddling, and I have not been ill this past winter."

"Are they? Balanced, I mean?" Her voice carries a lightness she does not entirely feel. "You have an overabundance of ironic humor, and not enough snarky or dirty humor. A deficit of your funny bone, maybe."

"Was that a joke, your Worship?" Michel inquires politely, his mouth twitching, hands continuing to work.

"Insolence!" Aeveth's laugh triggers his, and they chuckle quietly together.

"There is," Michel says softly, when peace and birdsong reassert themselves, "a paste made of ground birch leaves which may alleviate pain."

Aeveth raises an eyebrow. "That's some esoteric knowledge, Michel. I can't imagine botany or horticulture was a part of Academie training."

Michel encircles her forearm with his hand, tugs firmly, draws tension down and through it. Good, it feels _good_. "They were not. I learned of it elsewhere."

"I would not have taken you for a woodsman."

He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "To be honest, I hate the forest."

Aeveth grins, then winces at the jab of pain knifing up her arm.

Michel's expression flickers to concern. "Your Worship?"

Edged heat in her veins, scalpels slicing through her flesh, flensing her. There is pressure, and a bursting as if her skin has suddenly split open. Aeveth gasps, her hand seizing; only Michel's grip keeps her from flinging it around wildly. She cries out as the pain spikes higher, wrenches her hand from him, curls into a ball. The air fills with the whistle and crackle of the anchor, and the scent of ozone assaults her. Through her tears, she sees green lightning wreathing her hand.

Energy sluices through her palm, and though she fights to keep it from moving it lifts anyway, levitates with a power not her own, pulls so hard into the sky that her arm and shoulder and upper body follow suit. A thin beam of light shoots upward into the clouds, seeking the Fade. 

"Inquisitor!" Michel is shouting, his face upturned. "Inquisitor!" he shouts again. It's so loud, like he has to be heard over someone screaming. Belatedly, Aeveth realizes that it's her. Her voice, shredded and raw; her voice, pain embodied. The anchor is a living flame, a star in her hand, and she is burning, oh Maker she is burning from it, tissue and bone falling away in liquid human drops, melting.

Aeveth screams again, her toes leaving the ground. The pain is so overwhelming that it is its own entity, large and fearsome and looming, and the anchor twists in it, seeking egress. Tendrils of green flower from her hand, which is closing somehow into a fist, denying the call.

Denial. Whoever is manipulating the anchor will be denied, is denied. Her screams now are ones of rage and effort, her will devoted solely to the complete repudiation of the person on the other side. Aeveth spends what feels an eternity locked with her foe, inching towards control of the anchor. Increment by increment, bit by bit; she has had this _thing_ on her hand for more than two years, has lived and loved and _experienced_ with it, and she is the one with the advantage. She is the one who has the superior knowledge.

A thundercrack. Everything smashes to a halt, ceases as if never real.

Michel catches her when she falls, wraps her securely in his arms. Aeveth clutches his breastplate, knuckles going white, her chest heaving too fast, uncontrolled. Aeveth gasps, gasps again, eyes straining from how wide they are. Her left hand is unscathed, unmarred.

He sets her back on the ground and kneels next to her. How he isn't afraid, Aeveth doesn't know. Or perhaps he is, from the tightness around his eyes, the paleness of his face. She is, most certainly; the anchor has not acted of its own volition since the Breach was first created. Something tips over in her chest. She is lightheaded, seeing stars.

"Aeveth," Michel says to her urgently, and she is so shaken that she cannot even react to him saying her name. "Look at me.”

She does but looks through him, past him, finding blindness, seeing only the glowing teal afterimages of the sun, messy brushstrokes across the sky. She shakes violently, as if she has been submerged in icy water. When she had first seen the Storm Coast she got into the ocean on a dare, having spent her life watching it from the shuttered windows of the Circle. Not even halfway in she had been ripped from her feet by the undertow and flung underwater, and true to Thom’s warning it had been freezing. When he hauled her out, she thought she’d shiver her skin off.

Aeveth feels that way now, unable to stop the quaking. Michel takes a hold of her shoulders, locks down her eyes with his. They are blue-grey in the shadow of the tree. “Aeveth,” Michel repeats. “You must calm down. Slow your breath, and master yourself.”

She shakes her head, not understanding what he means.

Michel gathers her up, slides his palms under her shoulderblades, brings her to sitting, allowing her to rest her head on his shoulder. “Breathe, your Worship,” Michel murmurs, pressing close. He syncs his breath to hers, aligns himself effortlessly. “With me,” he says, his voice low, merely a vibration in his throat. “Just breathe.”

He stays with her until normalcy is restored, until the worn brittleness of fatigue sets in. Michel unlinks himself and gets to his feet, then helps her up. The worry is plain on his face.

“Your Worship,” he says. “Might I speak my mind?”

Aeveth covers her eyes with her right hand. “Always, Michel.”

A small sigh. “You cannot keep this a secret any longer, your Worship. You must tell the commander.”

His words drift onto her skin. She bows her head, weary and beaten, knowing he is right. 

Aeveth listens to Michel’s retreating footsteps as he goes to retrieve his sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love, and I'd love to know what you think of this. <3


	5. Chapter 5

_“You must tell the commander.”_

The ride back to Skyhold is silent. Aeveth clings precariously to her horse, tries not to waver in the saddle. The anchor pulses sluggish and lazy in her hand, no longer incandescent and cutting. It dulls as they approach, and as they cross the bridge Aeveth wonders if it is the presence of the Veil that dampens the anchor’s activity. The Veil is old here, she knows, but perhaps old means _strong._ Barring the instances when her magic erupted unchecked, the anchor has been tranquil within the grounds of the keep.

Had been tranquil, Aeveth corrects herself, her hand closing, fingertips digging into her palm.

Michel keeps his horse close to hers, reaches out with a steadying hand whenever her body cants to the side. Aeveth tangles her fingers in her horse’s mane, the solid feel of muscles and hair comforting. She is half-lost in her thoughts, letting her mount amble towards home, lipping and whickering at Michel’s charger. Once was a coincidence, twice a pattern. She needs to leave Skyhold again to find out the truth, brave the sun in her hand for the sake of surety.

But first she must brave Cullen.

Aeveth sighs heavily, rubs at her eyes with her unanchored hand. Anger, surely. Anger and worry, _how could you not tell me, I thought we said no more secrets._ These things she expects from him, but Aeveth is unsure whether she can withstand them in practice. She recalls the months she spent avoiding Cullen’s anger, the measured black coil of it, a stormcloud around his eyes. She had not intentionally hurt him then. She has intentionally done so now.

She sighs again, bending forward, and touches her forehead to her mare’s mane, slipping an arm around her neck.

“Are you all right, your Worship?” Michel asks.

She could say yes. She could assure Michel she is fine, though he will see through the lie. She could force courage into reality, present to Michel the same flimsy facade that has done such a good job of repelling Cullen.

Aeveth turns her head and strokes her mare’s neck. “No,” she replies. Michel’s eyes linger on hers. She wonders if their softness means sympathy or pity.

They pass under Skyhold’s gates, the bells pealing her homecoming. _Your Worship_ , come the greetings, _your Worship, your Worship._ Aeveth nods at her people, urges her mare towards the stables with a shifting of her weight. Michel dismounts first and takes the reins from her.

“Your Worship.” It’s different when he says it.

She waits. Michel untacks his horse swiftly. He has always been knowledgeable about horses; the Academie was thorough in its education. But living at the topmost echelon of Orlesian society had taught him to rely on servants for the mundane work. In a way Aeveth is proud of how he conducts himself now. Two seasons ago he would have commanded a stablehand to do the job, and Aeveth would have belayed the order. She has done precisely that in the past, having witnessed the cursory, if courteous way he treated an elven stablehand. “No,” she had said, her eyes flashing. “There are no servants at Skyhold. Michel will tend to his mount himself, and will do so as long as the Inquisition provides him safe haven.”

Michel had taken his rebuke to heart. Several rebukes in truth, which was not surprising; the man was nobility after all. Nowadays he occasionally joins Aeveth in her chores, sharing space with her in the scullery with suds up to his elbows, in the stores with baskets of dried goods all around, in the washhouse shoulder to shoulder with gossiping women. It had only taken a week of dirty linens for him to understand Aeveth’s point of view, to bring his laundry down to the house himself and ask humbly what needed to be done.

Aeveth dismounts, boots thumping into straw and dirt. She holds onto the saddle for longer than is necessary, encircles her horse’s neck with her left arm, lays her cheek against a living plane of black, inhales warmth. One ear swivels back towards her.

“Inquisitor?” Master Dennet approaches, holding feed pails. Aeveth gives him a half-smile. “I see,” he states, leaning into the stalls, tipping the contents of the pails into feeding pans. “Michel, you had better get her back before she collapses.”

“Master Dennet,” Aeveth objects.

“I know exhaustion when I see it, Inquisitor.” Master Dennet jerks his head at Michel. “Go on. I’ll take care of the rest.”

They are partway through the kitchens when Michel says, “I can bring you something, if you desire it.”

Aeveth divests herself of her thoughts for the moment. “I’m not hungry.” And it’s true, she isn’t. Her stomach is entirely occupied with being anxious. It roils and twists, sends bile to corrode the back of her throat.

Michel holds a door open for her, closes it gently behind him after he passes through. The rest of the walk to her quarters is made without conversation. Aeveth straightens when she enters the Great Hall, and beside her she can sense Michel doing the same, drawing himself up, making himself a match for her in carriage and stature. Together they can mask the slow death caused by her apprehension, the necrosis of her emotional state. Aeveth is planning on telling Cullen about the anchor, but there is no reason why the assorted dignitaries in the hall should know that something is amiss.

_Your Worship,_ she hears again, _your Worship_. Michel’s stern glares make it clear that she is not taking informal petitions. She is glad for him as she crosses to her door. Michel steps inside after her, casting her a glance when her shoulders droop.

“I can get upstairs on my own,” Aeveth says testily, a response to the question she can practically touch. It hovers between them.

“I believe you.” Michel’s voice is thoughtful, pensive. “I simply…”

Aeveth turns her head sharply when his words fall away. Michel is not often at a loss. “What is it?”

He takes several moments to formulate his answer. When he speaks, it is a circular parry, a riposte. Michel engages her in her weakness and strikes true. “Are you afraid?”

Aeveth waits for the _your Worship_ that customarily follows and receives silence instead. Her inability to reply lays her bare, flays her open to the bone. Naked honesty, she thinks. It is a night for naked, bloody honesty.

“Yes,” she whispers.

“And yet,” he continues, “you must do this.”

“Yes,” she whispers again.

He offers no platitudes because there are none. The touch of his eyes is a caress, and that is enough.

“Good evening, your Worship.” Michel inclines his head, then exits. The sound of the door closing echoes lonely in the still-unfinished tower.

Aeveth places a hand on the banister, and drags herself up the stairs.

*** *** ***

The door slams. Aeveth startles awake, disembodied and disoriented. She freezes in the dark, dizzy with confusion, not knowing what time it is, what day it is. With a groan she pushes herself to sitting. She is in her undertunic still, she realizes. She must have fallen asleep under the whirl of her thoughts.

“Cullen?” she calls out.

“Oh,” he says, sounding surprised. “You’re here.” Cullen’s silhouette floats up the stairs, black on black, a shade. Metal clinks. The sparker throws shooting stars; flame expands upon a wick. Cullen takes the candle and lights the rest of the tapers on the stand. “Did I wake you? You must be tired. You never take naps.”

Aeveth shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it, love.”

“But I do. Worry, that is. About you.” Cullen shrugs off his coat and lays it over the stair railing, pulls off his gloves, begins releasing the buckles and ties of his armor. “You haven’t been yourself lately.” He comes over to the bed after he sets the last piece of plate on the sofa. Leather creaks as he sits. He cards his fingers through her hair, and despite herself Aeveth sighs and leans into his touch.

Cullen nuzzles her cheek gently before kissing her. It would be so easy, Aeveth thinks, to let Cullen continue under the mistaken assumption that her dreams are to blame. She does dream, and vividly, but it is the constant pain of the anchor that keeps her from blissful nothingness, and not the things she wishes she could forget.

Just another few seconds, she thinks. Just another minute, another five, another ten of fractured peace, of the suspension at the top of an arc. Aeveth can bide her time, tell him tomorrow. Already her body is reacting to his innocent kisses. They have not touched each other for weeks, and if she gives in tonight she can gift him happiness and satisfaction. For him, she thinks. For Cullen, whose need for her matches her need for him. For Cullen, who can make her forget her troubles with the press of his lips, his hand on her face.

“Cullen,” Aeveth whispers into his mouth. She feels the delicate brushwork of his thumbs on her cheeks. His name is lost in the draw of his breath, the silvered rush of his yearning. “Oh, Cullen - “ She might as well be tinder and Cullen the spark. It is a familiar conflagration.

"Cullen." She breaks from him, shuffles back, opens up space. Intent gathers and solidifies, becomes preparation for the strike. 

"Cullen, we need to talk."

His breath catches for half a second. "What's the matter?"

Aeveth's fingertips slide along the back of his palm as her lips find his hand. She places them on his thumb, his wrist, the creases of his skin. They are regrets, every one. Her heart is pounding, pounding, on the verge, fast and thready.

"I know you'll be angry with me." She removes his hand from her cheek as gently as she can. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what, love?"

A measured breath, no turning back. For Cullen, Aeveth thinks, who deserves the truth, and not deception. For Cullen, who deserves someone far better than she, who deserves to look into someone's eyes and see clear to the soul.

"I have been...hiding something. From you. For some time." It takes all of Aeveth's strength to maintain eye contact. Cullen is frozen, a look of fear blooming on his face. "It's about my dreams."

Cullen exhales loudly. "Maker's breath, Aeveth. I know. Don't scare me like that!"

"No, Cullen." She shakes her head. "I've let you think that my dreams have come back. They haven't. And I hadn’t...the strength to correct you."

She watches his eyebrows draw down on his forehead. "Then...?"

"It's the anchor," Aeveth says, her reluctance pulling at her, a bit in her mouth. "It's been causing me pain for over a month. It’s why I can’t sleep, and...it’s acting unpredictably, and..." Every word is more difficult than the last. "And today it tried to open a rift on its own."

"What in the - " Cullen begins, then looks her left hand, rakes his right through his hair. She can hear the shakiness of his breath. "You kept this from me for a month? Aeveth, how - "

"I don't know," she says miserably, just as Cullen speaks over her.

"Aeveth, why?" The hurt in his eyes scorches her. "Why did you hide it from me for so long? If you are suffering, don't I deserve to know? Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I don't know!" She stands quickly on the heels of her outburst. Her right hand clenches into a fist; she forces herself to meet Cullen's eyes. "I thought perhaps it might - and then it was too late, and I was afraid of your reaction."

"Afraid?" Cullen looks as if she has just struck him a mortal wound. Aeveth watches the cut deepen, filling with realization. They have done this too many times, she knows. 

"Maker, afraid? Aeveth, why would you - oh, Andraste's flaming sword, no. _No!_ All this time?" He gets to his feet, breathing labored, his eyes golden and hot even in the semi-dark. "All this time, all these years, afraid of _me?"_

Just as he is afraid of her, though she doesn’t say it. "No, not all the time, no, but I was afraid of how you'd - the magic, I can't control it sometimes. I know what you were.” He recoils. 

“I thought at first it would go away on its own, but when it didn't -"

"And you didn't trust me enough to let me know? Or you didn't think it was important?"

She takes the hits, one-two, lightning bolts to the chest. "It's important!" she protests.

"Not important enough to tell me right away. What are your priorities, then? Not us, clearly.” She gasps, her hands flying to her mouth. “No more secrets, Aeveth, isn't that what we promised each other? No more of your damned secrets!" 

There's the anger she's been waiting for, the fury she's been dreading. Maker, it’s fiery, it’s scalding. Cullen is a warrior, and she has stirred him to battle. “You should have told me right away. Isn’t that the whole purpose of this?” Cullen flings his hand up and out, gesturing to the room, to their enmeshed lives. “Aren’t we supposed to be open with one another? But you don’t trust me enough to tell me about what’s bothering you. Maker’s ass, Aeveth!”

“I’m sorry, Cullen,” Aeveth says, “I’m sorry, I’m _sorry._ ” She could say it a hundred, a thousand times, and it would not be enough. The burn of tears blinds her, blurs out the tautness of Cullen’s body, the palpable blaze of his hurt. “I’m sorry. You're right, the fault is all mine. I should have told you. You should have been the first to know.”

His gasp is scraped and ragged, abrading her heart. “Should have been the first?” Cullen repeats, stupefied, incredulous. The space between them disappears in half a breath as Cullen grabs her around the shoulders. “Should have been? Who else knows, Aeveth? Who did you tell first? Dorian?”

“You’re the first person I’ve told, I swear it.” It’s meant to be reassuring.

“Do _not_ give me that Game bullshit!” Cullen practically snarls at her. _“Who?”_

Aeveth closes her eyes, but it does not do anything to shield against Cullen’s anger.

“Who?” Cullen demands again, when she does not immediately answer.

Her response is barely audible, just a hush of air, a breeze passing. She feels faint. “Michel.”

Cullen’s voice is of glaciers, blue and grinding, his hands like vices clamped upon her shoulders. Aeveth submits to the pain, knowing she has earned it. Later she will count her bruises and be grateful. “You told Michel de Chevin before you told me? You told - you told _him_ before you told your - your - “ Cullen’s voice chokes off. She knows he’s thinking about the dress. A poor bandage, that confection of white. It isn’t enough to bind the fissures in her trust, broken the night he ripped her gown in half. Maker, he hasn’t even _proposed._

“I didn’t have to tell him anything,” Aeveth says, defensive, and at the sound of her own voice she knows it’s all over. “I wasn’t lying when I said you’re the first one I’ve told. Michel just _knew._ He looked at me and he knew.”

Cullen lets fly an obscenity, and Aeveth flinches as if slapped. He releases her, spins on the ball of his foot, stalks towards the balcony doors, wrenches them open so hard that Aeveth thinks he will rip the hinges from the frame. But miraculously Cullen contains his rage, does not scream into the mountains, does not pick up the poker from the fireplace and hurl it as far as he can into the lake below. After a moment of agitated pacing and hard breathing he comes back inside, his every movement compressed fury, his face fearsomely contorted.

“Maker _take_ your damned secrets, Aeveth, I’ve had enough of them for a lifetime.” 

Aeveth trembles, tears spilling down her cheeks. Cullen strides past her, goes down the stairs. She cringes when he punches the door open, cringes again when he kicks it shut. She slides her arms around herself, able still to detect the faint smell of elderflowers.

The anchor hurts, but it is the ache in her chest which brings her to her knees. Aeveth curls into herself, wilts until her head touches the floor. She cries, her wails coming from a void stark and infinite within her.

The stone is cold and unforgiving beneath her forehead.


	6. Chapter 6

The piece of food in her mouth is bland and tasteless. Aeveth pays it little attention as she sucks on it, any trace of flavor long gone. It’s a thin-sliced piece of white radish pickled in rice vinegar and sugar, one of her favorite appetizers. But despite the care with which the food on the tray has been selected - the aforementioned pickled radish and carrot, steamed buns, hard-boiled eggs steeped in tea and a Free Marches dark sauce - Aeveth can barely bring herself to eat. Guilt flares, a little spark beside the bonfire that is her shame. Michel's gesture had been a pleasant surprise; she doesn’t want to be ungrateful. But everything is dust on her tongue.

Aeveth squeezes her eyes shut a few times, susses out the damage constant crying has done to her skin. Though she had emptied herself of tears some time ago, Aeveth’s face is still puffy and red, and the sensitive skin around her eyes is raw with salt. It stings just to blink, and as she finally presses the pickle between her molars she touches her face gingerly. Aeveth does not want to see herself this way, haggard and drained, a bloated corpse. It is unfortunate she is not actually a corpse. Her hand still aches abominably, and so does her chest.

She leans back in her chair, reaches out for a bun, takes a perfunctory bite. It is dry and wooden, much the way she feels now, moving through time and space slow and sluggish. Aeveth makes a face and sets the bun back down on the plate, then stands. The bed is calling her.

Three steps out and Aeveth hears the latch turn downstairs. It has been a few hours since Cullen’s heated departure, and she has not yet rebuilt her defenses. Aeveth is vulnerable, on the brink of coming apart. A few more angry words from him is all it will take to ruin her.

She holds everything: herself, her breath, the edge of the desk just in case, and waits for Cullen’s head to break the plane of the topmost step. He appears little by little, his footsteps reluctant, ascends from the pit of shadow that is the stairwell.

When he reaches the top they stare at each other, silent, for what feels like an eternity.

“Are you going to set a templar guard on me now?” Aeveth asks dully.

“No,” Cullen replies. “I will let you handle things the way you always do. On your own, and poorly.”

Aeveth drinks down his asperity, tastes nothing but ash. “Then why are you here?” she asks, monotonous. She cannot be hurt more than she already is; she has made her way to numbness and abeyance. “To rub my face in my mistake, like a dog?”

“Maker’s breath, Aeveth, no! That’s not -” Cullen makes a fist and looks away briefly. “That isn’t it at all. That was uncharitable of me. I’m sorry.”

Aeveth sighs, her fragile composure fleeing. “You’re angry,” she says, as if it as an excuse.

“I am,” Cullen says, “but it was still uncalled for. Forgive me.”

She shakes her head, waves it off.

“Look at you,” Cullen says, approaching. “You can barely stand. At least sit.”

Aeveth flinches from him. “Are you sure you want to touch me? The anchor is unstable.”

“It hasn’t hurt me yet. The same cannot be said for you.” He takes hold of her upper arm, guides her gently but firmly to the bed. Aeveth lowers herself carefully onto the covers and watches as Cullen unlaces his boots. When he sits he places himself close to the center of the bed, then pats the spot in front of him. “Here, love.”

She shuffles over, the mattress yielding slightly beneath her. Aeveth can almost hear the sweet song of it, telling her to lie down and sleep and leave all of this for the next day. “After what you said to me earlier, I’m surprised you can still call me that.”

“Being angry with you doesn’t change how I feel about you.” She doesn’t answer, and Cullen inclines his head to the right. “Is there...something else you would like to tell me?”

“No. That was it.” Aeveth folds herself into sitting as neatly as she can, but she is frayed edges and uneven tears, and nothing lines up. 

This time when Cullen takes her hand she doesn’t pull away. He studies her palm, and Aeveth wonders if he can see the fissure in it, wonders if he can sense by touch the unbound continuum of the Fade living in her bones. 

“Are you hurting now?” Cullen asks quietly.

“Yes.”

"Is it bad?"

"It's been worse, but..." Her voice drops to barely audible. "...being unconscious would be preferable."

Cullen's breath hisses through his teeth. “Does it stop?”

“Not typically, no.”

Cullen laces his fingers with hers tightly, bows his head. “Do you know why it is behaving this way?”

She closes her eyes. “No.”

A touch, the backs of Cullen’s fingers stroking her cheek. Aeveth opens her eyes to Cullen’s, warm and brown in the low candlelight. His next words are whispered. “Why were you afraid to tell me?”

Aeveth thinks for a moment. “You remember Sigrid, the Avvar mage?”

“Yes, the abomination.”

She lets the insult pass. “I remember your reaction to her, Cullen. How you suggested we keep an eye on her at all times, although she has lived for years without incident. How you suggested a templar stand guard, and how her room was to be small, likely meager.” Aeveth exhales heavily. “Is that how you would want me? Supervised, a smite at the ready?"

"Of course not," Cullen says. "You're different."

"I do not want to be your exception, Cullen. I want you to trust me - trust _us_ , trust that most of us can control our abilities.” Fierceness, sudden and surprising. “But the anchor… it’s everything you abhor. Magic that can lead to the Fade, raw and uncontrollable. Unpredictable. Demonic.”

Cullen remains silent.

“And so I waited. I hoped the pain would leave me. I hoped it would not get worse, but it did. And earlier today it acted on its own.” Aeveth frees herself of him, holds up her hand, rotates it one way, then the other. “One might say...it forced my hand.”

Cullen snorts loudly. “How you can make a joke at this time is beyond me, Aeveth.”

She gives him a tired smile. “It was the perfect opportunity. I had to grasp it.”

“Aeveth - “ Cullen sighs.

“Don’t weigh me down, Cullen.”

_“Aeveth.”_ He sounds affronted at her quip.

“What?”

“You’re distracting me.”

Aeveth recoils, taken aback. “From what? I’m being completely honest right now, Cullen.”

“That’s just it, my love.” He caresses her cheek again, cups her jaw the way he’s done a thousand times, and the sadness in his eyes is a knife in her chest. “You shouldn’t need to have everything taken from you in order to be yourself. You have been suffering for weeks, and you wouldn’t tell me. I have felt you distancing yourself, and tonight we fought. And now you are finally open and honest. Not because you have chosen it, but because you were forced to it. How much longer would you have tried to conceal your troubles?”

She stares at him wide-eyed, feels the improbable sting of tears. It’s unfair, Aeveth thinks. She was supposed to be all out. “Cullen, what are you saying? I don’t…”

He stops her with his thumb laid against her lips. “Aeveth, I love you. I love you, but if this is the trial you must undergo before you let me in, if being torn down completely is the only way you will be forthright with me…” Cullen leans forward, touches his forehead to hers for a second. Aeveth is sure that he can feel her trembling. “You shouldn’t have to suffer repeatedly. It shouldn’t be so hard for us, not after this long.”

Aeveth breathes raggedly, the air resistant, breaking around Cullen’s thumb before rushing into her mouth. Resistant, the way she feels now, not wanting the next moment to come, not wanting time to be its inexorable self. She has found a new reservoir of tears and they pour from her, spill over the nonexistent barricade of her eyelids, already eroded from the earlier flood. Cullen does not move, allowing her tears to slip over his hand, leave winding tracks behind as they path past his wrist and down his forearm.

“I wanted to be happy with _you,_ ” Cullen says softly. “But there is something in you I cannot touch no matter how I try. And it makes things so difficult, my love. It makes me think that I am not the right person for you. No matter how much I love you. No matter how much I want to live the rest of my life with you.”

Her only response is to fall forward, weeping. Cullen catches her, pulls her in, wraps his arms around her tightly, buries his face in her neck. He is shaking as well.

“Cullen, I love you,” Aeveth cries, and it’s the only thing she is capable of saying. “I _love_ you. I love you, I love _you._ ”

“I know,” Cullen replies, and Aeveth feels something hot and wending on her skin. “But it isn’t enough.”

Aeveth says nothing, can say nothing between her wracking sobs. The starkness of the truth Cullen has uncovered is staggering. The magebane, Orlais, the beautiful dress she will not wear, the pain of the anchor; they are each wounds half-healed, unable to close, the combination of them inevitable death. Aeveth loves Cullen, and it is not enough to stop the bleeding. Not enough to unearth the past she keeps from him, not enough for him to truly know her. _Not enough,_ Maker, it's not enough to fix those things she has broken, like the safety of his arms, the dearness of his trust. 

Cullen holds her, and they cry.

“Stay,” she whispers to him when they are pale and ghostly, shell-shocked in the hazy grey light of third watch. “Rest with me. Let me remember we said goodbye like this, together.” 

Cullen nods, his eyes achingly empty. They lay down, and Aeveth presses herself against him, fits herself to him as best she can. But they have never fit naturally, she thinks. They have only pretended there were no gaps.

He slips an arm over her, draws her near and intimate, embraces her the way he does before they make love. Aeveth curls her fingers into the collar of his shirt and thinks about the distance from her to Cullen, a gulf measured not in millimeters but years. Two years, seasons and seasons, all falling apart, disintegrating in her hands until there is nothing between them.

She has never felt so alone this close to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments always welcome. Fruit as well, rotten or otherwise. Maker take this chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

The roar of the waterfall that surrounds the Undercroft is normally soothing, but today it is only pounding noise, smashing the tenuous hold Aeveth has on her calm. She stands at the railing and peers over the side, watching the water crush itself into spray. The cacophony is almost physically unbearable, and as she looks down at the valley below she wonders if anyone has ever measured the distance from the top to the bottom. It is some distance, that much is for sure. A woman could believe in flight for a second or two at least.

Her fingers find the railing and tighten upon it. Aeveth leans over, inhales the peculiar smell of water vapor and sublimating ice, exhales her own little cloud. If she takes a big enough breath perhaps she can force out a raincloud, and with it all the dark and worming emotions that plague her. A cleansing breath, she has heard it called, but the only cleansing Aeveth can think of has nothing to do with breathing, and everything to do with the cessation of it.

"Your Worship." A hand settles on her shoulder, curving around it just long enough for her to feel warmth through her clothing.

Aeveth straightens and meets Michel's eyes. As carefully composed as his face is, he still cannot hide the traces of concern in the set of his jaw or the slight furrowing of his eyebrows. Michel has not been a constant presence but a steady one, finding her during the lulls of her days for a smile and a quick chat. She is grateful for the check-ins even if he acts as if they are not. If she is working in her laboratory Michel will poke his head in the door with a minor report; if she visits the garden sometimes he will already be there, reading in the gazebo. He is always pleasant and courteous of course, polite when he inquires after her state. To him she grants the truth on account of his previous complicity: she is surviving, but only just. Aeveth's world revolves around pain, physical and emotional, and neither kind is likely to abate soon. 

To the others, to Dorian and Vivienne, Sera and the Iron Bull, Varric and Leliana and Josephine, she says she will be all right. Aeveth is careful always to use the future tense, thinks perhaps it will dull the sharp flashes she sees in her friends' eyes. For all the times she has answered the question, the pity still cuts as freshly as ever. Aeveth would rather have the anger and the betrayal from confessing the truth about the Anchor, would rather have _how could you_ from Dorian, _what a poor decision you've made_ from Vivienne, _what the shit, Aeveth_ from Varric. Instead it's complicated - Maker, why is it always so fucking _complicated_ \- and Aeveth girds herself for daily battles, settles her shield so that she can weather the assaults. There is no resigned shrug and _it just didn't work out_. There is hollow-eyed self-flagellation and _you hurt him, Aeveth._

Cole does not ask, nor does Cullen. Their separation continues to bleed out until everything Aeveth touches tastes of bitter iron. It tinges her periphery in rust, steals her breath, reduces her to a broken mess in the worst situations. In the stables, currying horses, Master Dennet’s disapproving scowls like lances of shame pinning her to the columns. In the mage tower, writing directions for the Tranquil, blank-eyed and impassive as ink dilutes and runs on the paper. In her laboratory, the salinity of her tears completely ruining the proportions of her mixtures until she screams fire and smashes everything: beakers, pans, her hand against the wall. The new pain blocks out some of the old. Aeveth has not bothered to clean the floor thoroughly of glass shards, nor does she bother to wear shoes.

"Let me help you," Cole whispers from beside her. Aeveth glares at him, decides it's unfair, then turns her ire on the brim of his hat. It doesn’t smell of elderflowers, and the fact needles her.

"Your Worship?" Michel says again, not seeing Cole. "Dorian and Madame de Fer have both arrived."

A deep breath. "Thank you, Michel."

Aeveth turns, walks to where Dorian and Vivienne are assembled by Dagna. In front of them is a spherical black artifact on a small pedestal. It is inactive, the ironlike material of it cold to the touch. Upon closer inspection Aeveth can see curious staircases inside the parts that jut out. 

"Good morning," she greets everyone, holding steady the cracked glass of her emotions. Move too quickly, and she will fall apart all over again. "Let's get right to it, shall we? Dagna, what have you found? Does this strengthen the Veil as Solas said it would?"

Dagna assumes the stance she usually does when she is about to launch into a lecture, her shoulders squared, forefingers and thumbs pinching each other. "It sure does feel like it," she starts.

"That's good," Aeveth says, holding her hand out to it.

"I wasn't done!" Dagna exclaims, affronted.

"Sorry.” She pulls back from the artifact. “Do go on.”

“As I was saying.” Dagna touches the globe with a gloved forefinger. “From what I can tell with some of my tests, yes, this can strengthen the Veil. But according to you, Inquisitor, the Veil here is already very old, and probably very strong. I don’t know if adding to it would help at all with your hand.”

“At this point, I’ll try anything.” Aeveth doesn’t miss Dorian’s worried glance. Vivienne keeps her face perfectly still; Aeveth expects nothing less. “Shall I activate it to find out?”

Vivienne brandishes her staff. Aeveth can almost taste the dispel hovering grey at her fingertips. She inhales, exhales. A cleansing breath, one that carries away the taint of distraction so that her mind will remain clear and focused when she casts.

She extends her anchored hand, turns it palm up. Green mist swirls around the globe and solidifies into whirling orbits. The artifact comes quietly to life.

“Well, that was pleasantly underwhelming.” Dorian walks a circle around it, one hand on his chin. He stops when he reaches Aeveth. “How do you feel?”

Aeveth splays her fingers until the webbing burns, smoothes her other palm over the mark. It's a moment before she can answer. She has been clinging fiercely to her self-control, willing the pain of the Anchor and the pain of her failed relationship behind a wall just so she can get out of bed in the morning. It takes no small amount of effort to bypass it, to brace herself against the fullness of her self-perception.

She swallows, struggling in the surge of her emotions. "It...feels blunted. Less sharp."

Dorian takes her hands in his, separates them gently. “Aeveth,” he says, reproachful. “I asked how _you_ feel. Are you any better?”

“Perhaps. I don’t know.” Aeveth wrests her hands away from Dorian’s with more force than necessary, puts space between them. She is suddenly angry at the sympathy. _How could you_ , she hears, _how could you? How could you?_

“It’s hard to tell. It’s different. Maybe less painful. Less like someone is constantly slicing my hand in half. More like it has healed around the knife. Like someone has wound too many bandages over it and the pressure dulls the edge.” She actually wrings her hands for a few seconds.

“That’s horrific,” Dorian says, and Aeveth shoots him a glower. Dorian frowns in return. “Perhaps you will feel more of a difference in a few minutes.”

“Do let us know if it changes.” Vivienne bends forward gracefully to study the artifact. “This feels quite odd. Dorian, what do you make of it, darling?”

Dorian gives her one last frown before turning his attention to Vivienne. Aeveth ignores their conversation, addresses Dagna instead. “Do you think you could make something based off the artifact?” she asks.

“Oh!” Dagna ponders, her head angling to the right. “Maybe! If I have some time. What do you need?”

“Something like the artifact, but smaller. Wearable, if possible. Around my wrist.” Aeveth closes her eyes for a second. “As long as it can strengthen the Veil.”

“Do you want the weird staircases?”

Aeveth cracks half a smile. “No, you can leave the staircases off. So, is this possible, Dagna?”

“Oh, I’m sure it is!” the dwarf replies cheerfully, and Aeveth has no choice but to keep her smile on. Dagna’s enthusiasm is infectious. “I’ll just have to reverse-engineer it, and do some testing, and - do you mind if I break it?”

“What?” As one, Aeveth, Dorian, and Vivienne stare at Dagna. “Break it?” Aeveth repeats.

Dagna nods. “So I can see what’s inside!”

“It is an irreplaceable ancient artifact!” Dorian sputters. “Why would you do such a boorish thing?”

“Well if I succeed in making new ones, then it wouldn’t be irreplaceable!” Dagna counters. “Besides, aren’t there at least nine more of these? That’s hardly irreplaceable.”

“You can break it,” Aeveth says quickly, trying to head the argument off before the volume of their voices becomes unbearable, but it’s too late. Dorian and Vivienne are looking at her too loudly, and the noise of the waterfall makes her skin crawl.

“Thank you, Inquisitor!” Dagna chirps.

Aeveth covers half her face with her right hand, taken with the urge to run. Panic rises thready and fluttering in her chest. “If you’ll excuse me -“

“Your Worship.” Michel’s voice, low and soothing. “Shall I get the door?”

“Please,” Aeveth says tightly, allowing Michel to guide her up the steps. Three pairs of eyes watch her leave. They burn in her back, a half dozen awls digging, digging.

*** *** ***

Michel leaves the Undercroft with Aeveth and sits down with her at one of the long tables in the Great Hall. He lets the ambience of the room expand between them as he observes her in her agitated state. This is the first time he has seen her in such prolonged emotional turmoil, and it's disconcerting that a woman so strong could show such vulnerability.

Her other friends feel much the same. Aeveth has not joined them at the tavern since the breakup, and whenever the inner circle falls into conversation about her there is always an undercurrent of worry disproportionate to the situation. There is a history he does not know, Michel has come to understand. He isn't sure whether he should ask.

"You don't have to stay with me." 

He meets her eyes. They are shadowed, bruised past their usual warm brown. Aeveth looks exhausted, which is saying much; her skin has some youthful property that often hides the signs of poor sleep and stress. On other people Michel would be able to see fine lines or the green-blueness of undereye circles, but on Aeveth it just translates to a brittle paleness made more severe by the contrast of her black hair.

"Your Worship," Michel says lightly, "there is nothing I can add to the discussion. There was no reason to stay." He pauses, remembering the eluvians. "Though I would advise caution when it comes to elven magic."

Something flickers in her stare. "Why do you say that?"

Michel holds steady. "Because it does not affect humans the same way it does elves. The artifact is ancient. All the more reason to be cautious. The magic of that time was not for us."

"And you know this because...?" She leans towards him.

Good. He has her attention now. Michel mirrors her, leans towards her as well, makes sure that her mind is invested in the conversation and not in a spiral of negative feelings. "Because when I walked the paths between the eluvians, it was a thoroughly unpleasant experience. The same could not be said for the elves."

"Unpleasant how?" she asks. Her left hand twitches.

"There was," Michel says, recalling, "a twisting light that gave me a terrible headache, and a noise that was always on the edge of hearing."

"And for the elves?"

"For the elves it was closer to a leisurely stroll in the gardens. They walked at the same pace as we, but traveled further with each step, while the place between the eluvians kept them refreshed and content." At the time Michel had only wanted to get off the path, his discomfort being too great to consider much else. He had not thought of his elvish blood giving him some relief. Now, in retrospect, Michel feels slightly cheated. Useless, the elven side of him. As always.

Aeveth looks thoughtful. "I had thought the Crossroads to be unpleasant for everyone, but... I suppose that was rather foolish of me to see it that way. Of course it would be lovely for elves, they made it."

Michel blinks. "You have been to the paths?"

Her little smile brightens her eyes, and despite himself he feels gladdened by it. "Surprised? Yes, Morrigan took me once. She called it the Crossroads. It was much as you described. I wonder what it would be like for the elf-blooded."

"The same," he replies, and instantly realizes he has done so too quickly. It's concerning how easily he can talk to her. "Probably," he adds lamely. 

Aeveth's eyes touch his for a split second too long before sliding away. "Bleak and desolate, like an eternal winter. With that awful headache."

"You grow poetic, your Worship," Michel says, seizing on her words, and in response Aeveth's smile widens.

“Not at all, Michel. I’m afraid poetry suits me about as well as dance.” She sighs softly.

Michel contemplates the paths of dialogue open to him, weighs them against Aeveth’s current state. He could tell her she is passing fair at dancing - she does not step on his toes as much as she claims - but decides on a more neutral option. "Perhaps you will surprise yourself, Worship."

"I doubt it," Aeveth says, but the smile remains. "I believe Varric is our resident wordsmith. I won't squeeze myself beside him." She pauses, and the smile fades. "Thank you."

He raises an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For looking out for me. For trying to distract me." She plants her elbow on the table and props the side of her face up against her knuckles. "Don't think I haven't noticed, Michel."

Of course she would. He tries playing innocent. "Must I have ulterior motives, your Worship?"

She hmphs. "You are Orlesian, and have spent the last decade so close to the Game you could have claimed her as wife. How could you not?"

True enough, that. Michel wonders if she will ever see him as existing outside the Game's confines, wonders if Aeveth herself will ever step away. Here in Skyhold she is more relaxed, but when not at home she is always playing. Unlike other nobles, however, Aeveth puts her people first. He finds it honorable and refreshing that she would play for the betterment of someone not herself. A little like Briala, he thinks, though Celene also shares the trait.

"She is not so easily wed, your Worship, and does not desire me. She would be a poor wife as well, to live in a palace while I observe from the outside." He shifts in his seat. "No, your Worship, I am not a player, nor will I ever be." 

"You give me an answer which is not an answer. And yet, Michel. And yet." Aeveth's smile has a finality about it.

"And yet, your Worship," he says mildly.

Her smile splinters before him. Surprised, Michel turns and follows her line of sight. There, just entering the hall, is Cullen. Michel watches as the commander halts slightly upon seeing her, hears the catch of Aeveth's breath in her throat. "We will..." Aeveth begins, standing too fast. Her left hand closes once more into a fist. "We will have to continue this later, Michel."

He stands as well, lapsing back into his deferential role. "Of course, your Worship."

Cullen approaches, the strain between he and Aeveth so clear Michel can taste the metal of it. "There you are," he says softly once within range.

Aeveth's flinches from head to toe, then grinds her fist into the wood of the table. “Is there something you need?” she asks, voice faint, watered down. Michel feels a stab of sympathy at her obvious pain.

“Ah,” Cullen starts. Michel can read uncertainty in every line of his body. “There was... um, Josephine was looking for you.”

“I haven’t had a runner.” Aeveth doesn’t move a hair.

“And there are some...reports.”

“They can be delivered to my desk.”

Michel keeps his breath regular and even, centering himself, detaching from his emotions. He had learned early on while serving Celene how to perfect his selective hearing. He employs the skill now. Whatever lies between Cullen and Aeveth is none of his business.

“...that all, Commander?” Aeveth straightens and steps away from the table, pushing the chair back into its place.

“Yes,” Cullen says, pausing, and Michel understands that Cullen is purging his vocabulary of endearments word by word. “I believe that is all, Aeveth.”

Her mouth tightens into a line. “Very well, then. I will be in my laboratory should you have need of me.” She walks away stiffly, head held high.

Cullen lets out an explosive sigh once she disappears through the double doors. “Maker,” he mutters, then glances at Michel. “You got her to smile.”

Michel lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Only momentarily.”

“It’s better than nothing.” Cullen frowns. “What did you say?”

“Nothing special. We spoke as friends.”

“You spoke as friends,” Cullen repeats, dubious.

“Yes,” Michel affirms. “And as her friend I would advise you to have a care with how you address her.”

Cullen glares, his nose wrinkling unattractively. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean,” and here Michel has to be extra mindful, “that if you are determined to keep things the way they are, you should be wary of old habits.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen grumbles, and Michel senses the edge of Cullen’s exasperation. “You’re as bad as she is. Speak plainly.”

“You should not address her publicly the way you address her privately.” Maker’s breath indeed at having to spell it out in such a fashion. “It does little to help either of you.”

“I…” Cullen breathes in. “Thank you. I will keep that in mind.”

Michel nods; he’s done here. Her laboratory, she’d said, but it was probably best to leave her be. Perhaps the library would yield something new. “Good day, Commander.”

Cullen rubs his hand over his forehead before he responds. “Good day, Michel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you leave me love in the form of comments, I'll love you right back!


	8. Chapter 8

“Really, Adan, if your apprentices could stop using all the blood lotus, we would be making more progress.” Aeveth eyeballs a vial, then plucks a glass stirring rod from a beaker of light blue liquid and shakes two drops in.

“They’re incompetent, the lot of them,” Adan grouches, squeezing a sparker, _scritch-scritch._ “Can’t even get the distillation right.”

Aeveth snorts. “Oh, making mistakes on the first or second distillation is understandable, especially for the new apprentices. The third or fourth time, or the fifth?” Aeveth grins, recalling her own so-called high learning curve. How many times did she botch the distillation, laughing to herself as she clutched the worktable, gems in her eyes? It was a time-honored tradition among apprentices. “Control them, Adan, before the supplies run out. Or else the requisition officer will have a new task for me.”

Adan is having poor luck with the sparker, so Aeveth reaches over, a flame hovering on the tip of her finger. “Phlogiston and piss,” the former apothecary mutters as fire kisses the rounded bottom of a distillation chamber.

“You’re welcome,” Aeveth replies pleasantly. To the best of her knowledge, Adan has never been in a good mood.

A knock sounds at the door. “It’s open!” Aeveth calls out, her eyes still on her vial as she pours the contents into the chamber.

“Am I disturbing anything?”

Aeveth’s skin prickles into goosebumps at the sound of Dorian’s voice. She has not spoken to him since the meeting in the Undercroft; despite Dagna’s constant work on the artifact there has been no breakthrough, and therefore no need to see either Dorian or Vivienne. In truth, she has studiously avoided everyone but Michel, stayed barricaded in her laboratory. Nowhere is safe, including the tavern. Aeveth is unsure whether she can ever go back.

“Adan and I are in the middle of something,” she says, slipping the now-empty vial into a rack. She twists a knob on the distillation chamber, adjusting for pressure.

“Not really,” Adan says, and Aeveth shoots daggers at him. “It’ll be a lot of waiting around.”

“Good,” Dorian says, stepping into the room. “If I might claim a bit of your time, Aeveth? Alone, please.”

She scowls, peeling her gloves off. “Fine. Let us get this over with.”

Adan pulls the ties of his apron as he leaves her lab, hangs it on a hook as he exits the door. Aeveth watches him leave with growing dread. When she looks to Dorian, her stomach clenches. The soft click of the door shutting goes straight through her.

“Yes,” Dorian agrees, “let us get this over with.” He looks around her laboratory. “You have been busy.”

“Lots to do.” Perhaps if she keeps her answers succinct, he will go away faster. Aeveth can withstand many things, but the withering heat of Dorian’s disdain is not one of them.

“I had thought the same, but Bull has disabused me of that notion.” He approaches slowly.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Aeveth frowns, observing the distillation chamber closely.

“This is unlike you.” One foot, then another, like she is a wild, wounded animal. “You have been avoiding us.”

“With reason.” She needs something to do with her hands so that she won’t have to make eye contact.

Dorian peers around. “Don’t you have anything to sit on in here? Barbaric.”

Aeveth points to a stool stowed beneath the worktable. “Don’t think you’ll need it.”

“Oh,” Dorian says darkly, his fingers curling under the lip of the seat when he drags the stool out, “I think I will.” He perches, half-sitting, and folds his arms over his chest. “Since you are not in a talkative mood, I shall speak first. You have been avoiding us. I did not want to believe Bull when he said it, but for all his insufferable qualities, he is right about most things. Including you.”

Aeveth narrows her eyes at Dorian. “Had I wanted this, I would have summoned Bull myself.”

“Don’t interrupt. It’s rude, and I am formulating a pretty, moving speech that will simultaneously repair the rift in our friendship and convince you to stop moping about. You are my friend, Aeveth. My _best_ friend, if I have not said that enough already, please do not make me repeat myself overmuch. As I am unfortunately quite attached to you, it behooves me to inform you that whatever disconsolate scenario you have concocted regarding me, it is absolutely untrue and you must stop this self-flagellation immediately. You are practically leaving a trail of blood behind you, and red is not your most flattering color.”

“What…” Aeveth blinks, at a loss. “But…”

“But nothing, Aeveth. Now is when you need your friends the most. Or did you think we would all abandon you?”

“Ah...no.” She’s been terrible at lying lately.

“Bullshit.” Dorian snorts. “I thought you had gotten better. I hate it when I’m wrong.”

“But Cullen…”

“But Cullen nothing. You are in need of cheering up as well. You have the mark to contend with on top of everything.” Dorian’s eyes follow her as she paces.

“I have that part under control.” The active artifact has continued to mitigate the pain. It is tolerable now, blunted enough that Aeveth can relegate the pain to the outside of her body, pretend that her hand is separate from her. She has learned how to live within its confines, and when she is focused on a task, it almost disappears.

“Do you?” Dorian says dryly. “As long as you are not planning any nasty surprises. I have not forgiven you for trying to kill me.”

Aeveth makes a face. “I thought this was about me, not you.”

“It’s always about me in relation to you.”

“Maker’s Fade-chapped ass, Dorian.”

He smiles briefly. “I’ll say it plain, Aeveth. We are concerned for your well-being. Michel is only one man, and - “

Aeveth cuts in, suddenly heated. “He’s been _reporting_ to you?”

“Not reporting, no, but giving us updates, as he is in contact with you the most. I confess to feeling somewhat jealous, though once I look at him that all seems to fade away somehow. Curious how that happens. Incidentally, lucky you.”

Aeveth starts laughing. “Dorian! Too soon!”

“I know, I know. But your laugh is a sound I have not heard in some time.” Dorian gets to his feet. “I believe a hug is in order?”

She steps close and embraces him tightly. “You were all upset by how things ended, and I felt it was directed at me,” she whispers, her eyes stinging. “I wronged him. I thought he would need you more.”

Dorian lays his cheek against hers; his mustache tickles. “We were upset, it’s true. But we’ve had time to work out what happened. You cannot do this on your own. It’s been long enough, Aeveth. Come back. Give Michel a break from your drama.”

“I am _not_ \- “ Aeveth starts, pulling back, insulted.

“Don’t lie,” Dorian says immediately. “It’s unbecoming.”

Aeveth settles for glaring instead. “Truly, Dorian? You think I’m dramatic?”

Dorian’s flat stare could level mountains. “You are not seriously asking me this.”

She gives him a dirty look. "I'm going to regret it if I ask you to elaborate, aren't I?"

"Yes," Dorian answers reflexively.

"All right," Aeveth says. "But I'm not dramatic all the time."

"Not all the time, no. You do have a gift for it, however."

"And you don't?" Aeveth snaps back.

"Of course I do. That's how I recognized it in you. Like calls to like, et cetera."

She sighs. "If I make it to the tavern tonight, promise me a private chat afterwards?"

"Absolutely, my friend. It is past time someone other than Michel got your attention."

"Will you quit insinuating - Dorian, really! Do you want me to go or not?”

Dorian smiles sadly. “I do. My apologies. I have missed you terribly, you know. I should have come to you sooner. A poor showing, on my part.”

Aeveth studies the stone floor of her laboratory. After a while she says, “I do not blame you for leaving me to my devices this long.”

A _tsk_. “We shall need to discuss this tonight over dinner, once you have made the rounds.” Dorian pauses. “Please do not go straight from here to the tavern.”

Another laugh, shorter. “I won’t. I will look my best for you, master Pavus.” Aeveth checks on the distillation chamber. “I’m sorry to cut this short, Dorian, but I actually do have to concentrate on my work.”

“I understand. Tonight, then?” He turns to leave.

“Tonight.” Aeveth sends him on his way with a smile, waits for the sound of his footsteps to recede. She exhales softly, then reaches over to a rack of vials in the center of the table, all unlabeled, all filled with the same pink liquid. She picks one up, rolls it between her thumb and forefinger, and regards it for several moments. It lies innocent in the palm of her hand.

She will not want to dull her senses this evening. Aeveth slides the vial back into the rack, monitors her experiment, and thinks about what she will wear.

*** *** ***

The door to the Herald's Rest has never looked so foreboding nor felt so heavy. Aeveth puts a hand against it and pushes halfheartedly but it refuses to move, staying thick and reticent, a repellent. She could lose her nerve and turn around now. She could say that the door was too...door-y.

Ridiculous, the idea that the Inquisitor would have difficulty entering the tavern named after her. And still she does not do anything.

Aeveth closes her eyes, her head bowing. She has already gotten dressed for the occasion, selecting a long-sleeved summerweight cotton tunic all in white, slashed with chiffon and lace, belted widely with a white satin sash. The neckline is a narrow V that plunges to the bottom of her sternum, and below her waist the tunic flares out slightly in the style of a dress. The hemline stops just short of her knee; she has chosen golden hose to go under it and a pair of sleek, over-the-knee boots, medium-brown and suppler than sin, lightly heeled. Leliana has worked some sort of magic with Aeveth's hair, braiding it into a crown and threading tiny white wildflowers through it, and a thin chain of silver dangles from each ear, ending in a pendant of the finest deep green nephrite.

Of course she must have cosmetics, Leliana had said, and produced a kohl as black as the starless night sky. Aeveth had not felt in the mood when Leliana began applying makeup, but by the time she was finished Aeveth had to admit that looking at her reflection lifted her spirits.

If only that buoyancy had stayed with her. Aeveth straightens and opens her eyes. She has faced down Corypheus and triumphed over the lions in Orlais, battled with the most terrifying, disgusting darkspawn, claimed dragon skull upon dragon skull as trophy, and here she is, defeated by a simple wooden door.

"Your Worship?"

Aeveth glances back; it's Krem standing behind her. "I thought it was you," he says, coming around, splaying his hand on the door, working the latch with the other. "I almost didn't recognize you. You look nice." Krem's mouth quirks. "Expensive."

"Thank you, Krem," Aeveth says, keeping her tone light. "Pricey escort was precisely the look I was after. A pity no one can afford me."

Krem laughs. It's his only apology, if ever there was going to be one. Aeveth gives him a good-natured smile in return. He pushes the door open a crack, allowing a meager slice of light out. "Are you coming in, your Worship?"

The door opens before she can say anything. Krem has asked her a rhetorical question.

Krem steps in first, the door bumping against his arm, his shoulder, the planes of his back. As he gestures towards the common room it is the Iron Bull who takes notice of her first, his head lifting, the knowing lance of his eyesight piercing her through. In a millisecond he parses the situation, turns from Hissrad into a jovial friend. He tosses his horns, jerks his head in a come-here motion. 

"Boss!"

The rest of the table turns, and to Aeveth it seems as if she is standing beneath a rain of arrows all thudding home in the center of her chest. Sera, Varric, Josephine, Cole, all surprised; Dorian, delighted; Michel, face blank with shock; Cullen, Cullen, _Cullen_. Aeveth cannot breathe, transfixed as she is under his golden gaze.

"After you," Krem says cheerfully, and Aeveth has no choice but to lift leaden feet, carrying her anxious, reluctant self towards her grouped companions.

Bull rises, his knees whacking the table, making mugs and dishes clatter. “Boss!” he calls again, covering the distance in ground-eating strides, surrounding her in strong gray arms. He lifts Aeveth easily, whirling her in a circle before crushing her to him in a hug. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs to her, angling them so no one can read his lips. “I got you covered.”

“Don’t make me cry, Bull,” Aeveth murmurs back, her nose already stinging.

“Sorry, boss,” Bull replies, and squeezes her until tears spring from her eyes. Aeveth wheezes when she is set down, stumbles over her own feet until Bull holds her steady.

“You are such a boor.” Dorian announces his presence behind her, and Aeveth turns to him. She spies Cullen’s face over the curve of Dorian’s shoulder when he hugs her. Their eyes meet; he drops his first.

“Thank you for being gentle, Dorian.” Aeveth frees herself just in time to receive Sera’s punch on the shoulder. “Ow, Sera!”

“Not sorry,” Sera chirrups, and punches her again for good measure.

Aeveth rubs her arm, rueful, as Varric’s laugh carries over the tavern noise. Sera sticks her tongue out at him, and when she’s not looking Aeveth sucker punches her right back.

“Ow!” Sera exclaims. “Bugger.”

“Deserved it,” Aeveth says, smiling as Sera tows her towards the table. “Sera, I’m afraid I won’t be staying long - Dorian and I are to have dinner.” Aeveth gives Cullen a wide berth.

Sera drops her hand like a hot ingot. “You got me all excited-like,” she grumbles, then kicks Cullen’s chair leg fiercely. “Showing up and all that.” She blithely ignores Cullen’s scowl.

“Your Worship,” Michel says, grinning. “It is good to see you.”

“Oh, lay off the act, you nob,” Sera groans, rolling her eyes. “You see her more than everyone else.”

Michel opens his mouth. “Miss Sera - “

“Don’t you _Miss Sera_ me you poncy twat, I’ll arrow your knickers! And then your nobby knob won’t get to knob Inky.”

“Sera!” everyone cries in exasperation. Michel colors prettily, scandalized.

“What?” Sera purses her lips and crosses her arms. “Just sayin’. Lose a knob, gain a nob. Or maybe that one right there.” Sera points, and everyone turns. “Servis, yeah? All slimy and magicky?”

“I’m going upstairs,” Aeveth says tightly once she has looked, her cheeks ablaze, unable to make eye contact with either Cullen or Michel. “Good evening.” She practically scuttles up the steps.

“Have I ever mentioned,” Dorian says once they are in their booth, “how good at diversion Sera is?”

“At the expense of my dignity?”

“And Michel’s. Sera is an equal opportunity shamer.” Dorian takes a sip of his wine. “Lucky for you, we are all willing to play along.”

“I am surprised Michel didn’t say something about honor and challenge Sera to a duel.” Aeveth clears her throat, deepens her voice, adds a comically overwrought Orlesian accent. “Death before dishonor, peasant! My honor has been impugned and you must pay!” She giggles.

Dorian doubles over into a laugh, hands on his stomach. “Ah,” he says, subsiding, “he has gotten much better since he first joined us. Thank the Maker. All that stiff Orlesian formality. Stiffness in all the wrong places, to be sure.”

“For the love of the Maker, Dorian!” It’s Aeveth’s turn to laugh. “Is this what you talk about with Bull?”

“No, of course not,” Dorian replies quickly, which Aeveth understands immediately to be a lie. “We have not talked about the men in the Inquisition in that manner. How coarse and presumptuous of you.”

“Servis, though?” Aeveth twists her lips, sour.

“Vile, and yet the suggestion has merit.” Dorian grins. “He is not hard on the eyes.”

“You’re joking.”

“Sera’s methods are crude, but perhaps she has a point. You’re a free woman now.” Dorian sets his wineglass down and shifts in his seat. “Drink enough and neither of you will remember a thing. You will get - to borrow a phrase from Bull - your cork popped, and he will not be able to kiss and tell, as it were.”

Aeveth shakes her head. “No, the man is slippery enough to invent a story and then sell the rights to it. No thank you, Dorian. Unlike you, I’ve a reputation to uphold.”

He laughs quietly. “There’s the Aeveth I know.”

“Mildly snarky, with a penchant for theatrics and a holier-than-thou air?”

Dorian tilts his head and is silent for a moment, his face and eyes softening. “Mildly snarky, with a penchant for theatrics, yes. But also a kind soul, and one who has been hurt so deeply that she sees no recourse but to retreat from all who care for her.”

“Damn it, Dorian.” Aeveth’s jaw clenches. “I was the one who hurt him. He needed your support.”

“And you didn’t? Don’t be ridiculous.” He pauses long enough for the tavern server to set food down on the table, continues when the server leaves. “I have heard the full story from Cullen, or as full a story as I will get from him. You were not without reason to withhold that information.”

Aeveth tries to bore a hole through her plate with her eyes. “He doesn’t think so. I violated his trust. He has always struggled with…with my…”

“Secret-keeping?” Dorian serves himself as he speaks. “Has he been completely forthright with you, I wonder?”

“He would, if I asked.” Food appears on her plate, but Aeveth is suddenly not hungry. “Though I haven’t. Some things… I read _Tale of the Champion._ Some things I would rather not know. And there are things about me I don’t think he would want to know.”

“Such as the Circle?” Dorian unfolds his napkin and places it on his lap.

“Such as the Circle,” Aeveth affirms, doing the same. “My actions there, what I felt I had to do, even my motivations for flirting with him.”

“I believe he has an inkling about your role,” Dorian says, “but does not know the details. You have not given me any, but I am rather excellent at extrapolation. Some things should remain secret, that I firmly believe. In this I cannot blame you for wanting to shield him.” A beat. “And for you wanting to be willfully blind. Are you afraid you will not love him any more if he told you?”

“Does it matter?” Aeveth whispers, her nose stinging again. “We have only a professional relationship now.”

“Who is to say it cannot be a personal relationship again?” Dorian’s voice is warm. “You have faced troubles in the past and come back together. Or…” He gives her a searching look. “...you do not want it to be a personal relationship.”

She sighs. “Can we have one if all I do is hurt him continually? Look what I’ve done to him, Dorian. And likely will continue doing to him, if we get back together.”

Dorian sets his fork down and stretches his hand across the table. Aeveth takes it, smiles for a second when he squeezes her. “People do change,” he says. “You can too. And so can he. For all of your lamenting your personal failures, you should remember that Cullen is not perfect.”

“You’re right, naturally.” Aeveth returns Dorian’s gesture. “But I think we have... I think we have damaged each other more than we have helped each other. I love him so much, Dorian, but I don’t…” Here Aeveth has to stop; her jaw is trembling.

“Hey.” Dorian admonishes her gently. “Don’t ruin your makeup.”

Aeveth barks a laugh. “If I look uglier, do you think Cullen would love me less?”

“No, I think he would want to comfort you if you came downstairs with streaky kohl. And then he would likely be upset with me for having upset you. Let us avoid all that, shall we? Or else we will be in this situation again, only this time you will be bemoaning having fallen into bed with him for the umpteenth time.”

“Dorian!” Aeveth glares. “You’re awful!”

“And you still love me, so I cannot be as bad as you say.” Dorian smiles. “Aeveth. Whatever you decide, I just want you to know that you have my support.”

“Thank you, my friend.” She beams at him. “That is worth more than you think.”

“And on that note,” Dorian says, “I’m afraid I must tell you something important. Please don’t cry, Aeveth. Someone will want to punch me, and I bruise so easily on my face.”

“Dorian…?” Aeveth says, her tone rising, questioning.

“I…” He is uncertain for a moment. “I have decided it’s time that I left the Inquisition. It’s time that I returned to Minrathous.”

Aeveth bursts into tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments brighten my day! Don't make me threaten you with angst, now.


	9. Chapter 9

“So, what do you think?”

The bracelet lays unclasped upon a small hand towel on Dagna’s work table. It is simply crafted, just miniaturized versions of the the artifact minus the stairs, the spheres smooth and black, less than an inch in diameter. They are strung on a thin, flexible chain of tiny silverite links, each stationed about an inch and a half apart. _That looks like…_ Aeveth thinks, but does not allow the thought to go further.

Dagna picks up the bracelet by the loop on one end and holds it out to Aeveth. “Well, Inquisitor?”

Aeveth covers her mouth with both hands. Beside her, Dorian’s sudden guffaws shatter the air. He laughs uproariously, clutching at his stomach, bending over, bracing himself on a knee.

“What?” Dagna asks, confused. “What’s so funny?” She gives the bracelet a shake.

Aeveth’s snort escapes from between her fingers, and then she too is laughing, sinking to her knees on the cold stone floor of the Undercroft. She reaches for Dorian, whose laughter has gone silent with its ferocity. “D-Dagna!” Aeveth gasps, catching herself before she falls face first onto the floor. “I know you didn’t mean for it to resemble…” She interrupts herself with more laughter.

Dagna narrows her eyes at the beads on the chain; realization breaks sudden over her face. “Oh. _Oh.”_ Then she too is laughing, her cheeks pinking slowly from behind her fingers. “Inquisitor, I’m sorry!”

Aeveth straightens, trying to catch her breath, and waves off Dagna’s apology weakly. “It’s fine,” she says, coughing. “Oh, Maker. It’s fine. You didn’t mean it. But would you mind reforging it? Into a bangle, perhaps? Something solid?”

“I can’t!” Dorian wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes. “Dagna, why is it so _long?“_

“Well, I didn’t know Aeveth’s measurements,” Dagna explains, “her being a human and all, so I made it a bit large -”

“Large!” Dorian fairly cries, dissolving into laughter again. Aeveth folds her lips inward and clamps down, shoulders shaking.

Dagna’s eyes sparkle as she continues. “- but now that you’re here, you can try it on for size!” the arcanist finishes.

“Try it on!” Dorian howls. “For size!”

“Dagna, you’re going to kill him!” Aeveth exclaims, extending her left arm. 

Dagna giggles, encircling her wrist with the bracelet, marking where the ends meet with her fingers. “I did make it too long,” she observes.

Aeveth’s mouth twists, wry. “The size difference is not so drastic, it seems.” A glance at Dorian. “Pull it together, you!”

“Sorry, sorry.” Dorian gets to his feet, thumbing away more tears. “That was wholly unexpected. Thank you for unintentionally brightening my day, Dagna.”

“You’re welcome!” Dagna chirps, singsong. “Inquisitor, do you want to give the bracelet a try? I won’t be able to reforge this one. I’ll have to make a new one.”

“Um…” Aeveth titters nervously. “Not that I have any issue with the bracelet itself, Dagna, but…”

Dorian raises an eyebrow at her.

“...fine, I’ll take it. For experimentation - Dorian, shut up!” It’s no use. Dorian has his hands on his knees again and is laughing merrily. “Dorian!”

“It isn’t experimentation if you’ve used one before, Aeveth!”

“For the love of the Maker, Dorian!” Aeveth shouts, her ears burning. Dorian only laughs all the harder.

*** *** ***

“Are you all right, Aeveth?” Dorian asks, sending her a concerned look.

“It’s starting to hurt more.” Aeveth grimaces and shakes out her hand. The bracelet’s beads clatter against themselves. It’s long enough to circumnavigate her wrist twice, and worn this way the beads settle against each other in a line, though they shift and click with the movements of Aeveth’s arm.

“I think it’s time to activate it, then.” Dorian gestures to a spot beside the road. They are half a bell outside Skyhold and the road here is less steep, winding through walls of stone and sparse patches of grass. The area is surprisingly flat compared to the stretches before and after it; Aeveth knows it well.

“I don’t know if it will make a big enough difference here,” Aeveth says in return, holding her palm up. Nothing has happened yet. The skin is smooth, and the mark remains sleeping.

“It will,” says Your Trainer sternly, perched uncomfortably atop the most sedate horse Master Dennet could find. “The energy expands. It is incredible. Or will be.” The sun highlights her grey hair with silver, but shines harshly on the planes of her face. The effect only serves to make her appear more authoritarian. “I will know if it becomes too much. The others didn’t, and inverted. But I stayed to study. I did this, Inquisitor, so that you would not have to. I have the knowledge. And I say it is not too much. As your trainer, I say this to you.”

“All right,” Aeveth says, unsure as always how to address the older woman. “We can…” For a moment she wrestles with herself. Her sanctuary has always been fiercely hers, a secret she has kept guarded from all but Cullen. But they are near, and she has built into the sanctuary protective magic. Aeveth cannot think of a better place to test the bracelet.

The mark crackles with energy, faint green lightning spidering from it. Aeveth gasps at the burst of fresh pain over what is already there. In a second it subsides, but that is all it takes for Aeveth to make up her mind. “This way,” she says shakily, kneeing Keeper over to the side of the trail. Her mare is already familiar with the path, and when turned onto it, breaks into a trot. Aeveth suspects her eagerness is because of the sweetgrass in her sanctuary, made sweeter because of her magic.

“Where are you taking us?” asks Dorian as he posts in the saddle. Behind him, Your Trainer is emitting a low, flat wail of despair as her horse follows, also at a trot. Her hands are melded to the saddle horn, and if Aeveth looks closely she thinks she can see the other woman’s eyes rolling. “And slow down, please! Your Trainer is going to fall off her horse and break something, and healing magic is not my specialty.”

Aeveth doesn’t slow, not that Keeper would allow it. “I’ll explain in a minute, when we arrive,” she calls back to Dorian. Keeper follows the curve of the path, whickers when she sees the tree. Aeveth pats the mare’s neck fondly once they reach the circle of flowers and dismounts into embrium stalks as tall as her waist. The flowers are overgrown, the bases choked with weeds; at least the crystal grace seems to be doing well. 

She sighs. Aeveth has not given the sanctuary her best efforts, and she feels guilty. Cullen is right, of course. She has needed this place.

Keeper kicks her heels and prances off once Aeveth has removed her bridle. For a moment Aeveth stands among the flowers, breathing in deeply, letting the scent infuse her bones. The sanctuary calms her in waves, the soothing effect washing away some of the edges in her palm, the bleeding grief in her heart. 

“How long did it take for you to create this?” Dorian asks, voice hushed as he takes in the surroundings. “I can feel the magic down to the roots of the earth. It’s very you, and at the same time very...unlike you.”

Aeveth helps Your Trainer down from the saddle and pulls her horse’s bridle off. “I modeled it on what I could figure out of Skyhold’s magic. And it took me months. Months and months.”

Dorian walks with her towards the center of the sanctuary where the tree awaits, hammock dangling from its branches. He holds both his hands out, palms facing downward; the faint glow of magic surrounds him as he tests the ground. “When did you do this, Aeveth?”

“Around the time Cullen and I had...problems.” She hisses sharply. “Don’t do that. I can’t have any extra energy between the layers. They have to remain as tight as possible so the residuals won’t creep.”

“I see.” Dorian cants his head to the side, a faraway expression on his face. “You should write a set of instructions on how to do this. Combining magic like this is exceedingly rare.”

“And exceedingly taxing. Do you know how much effort it took to visualize -”

“- the glyphs of restoration and stasis surrounded by the Veil-warp and inverted barrier? Aeveth, this work is extraordinary.” Dorian sighs and puts his hands down. “And you never showed me any of it. I’m hurt, I think.”

She smiles faintly as she watches Your Trainer make her way to the center. “I will be happy to draw you the diagrams when we get back. Perhaps as your going-away present.” She takes a big breath, blows it out. “All right, no dithering. Are we ready? Dorian, I’ll need you to nullify the barrier if something goes awry.”

He unlimbers his staff from his back. “Won’t that collapse the structure and break the clasps? You’ve built all this on the assumption that the barrier’s repulsion will be a strong enough foundation. If I snap it, then it won’t be able to consume -”

Aeveth holds her palm out to Your Trainer. “I know. I trust you to keep us safe, Dorian. And…” She hesitates, remembering Cullen sleeping peacefully in the hammock, the hours they spent in simple companionship, the night he made the stars come down to dwell in her skin. “I can always rework this to be better. I see mistakes everywhere.” 

Aeveth addresses Your Trainer. “Can you pull energy from this?”

She inspects Aeveth’s hand, frowning. “Yes. I can.”

“All right then, you do that, I will activate the bracelet, and we shall see if it strengthens the Veil enough to help stop the mark from flaring out of control.” Aeveth grits her teeth. “That doesn’t sound safe at all.”

“Be bold, Aeveth! Intrepid.” Dorian grins.

Aeveth snorts quietly. “Intrepid in the face of possible injury or dismemberment, or… what did you call it, Your Trainer?”

“Inversion,” replies the older woman primly. “Inversion.”

“Yes, inversion, whatever that means.” Aeveth sighs again. “Not for the first time, I wish Solas was here to help. He would have some insight, without a doubt. Well, let’s do this.”

Green mist rises from Aeveth's skin as she focuses inward, relinquishing control of the Anchor. The mark shines, a slash of light on her palm. Your Trainer's eyes narrow as she assesses the situation. Aeveth watches in fascination as Your Trainer manipulates the leaking energy, somehow folds it in on itself, treating the Anchor almost as if it is a small rift.

Aeveth grits her teeth through the rising tide of pain. "Dorian, do you see...?"

"Yes," he affirms.

"Quickly now," Your Trainer says, and Aeveth's head snaps up in surprise to hear the change in tone. She sounds alive, and her eyes are dark and knowing. "Activate the bracelet."

The vision is clear in her mind: the artifact, streaks of magic in orbit; every bead, surrounded by the same. With her intent firm, Aeveth sends her magic into the beads of the bracelet. Swirls begin to form around them. “Well,” she says, “so far so -"

Pain slams into her, dropping her to her knees. Aeveth’s shriek is a thin, frightened thing, compressed with overwhelming pain. The bracelet is not strengthening the Veil in the slightest but opening up a channel, a connection from her to something or someone else. Aeveth struggles for breath as lightning gouts up from her hand into the sky. She hears Dorian’s shout through the roar of blood in her ears; his complex spell stirs her clothing, tightening the skin on the back of her neck.

Your Trainer's eyes blaze with emerald fire as she turns the magic of the mark. Between her hands it seethes and roils, but Your Trainer remains calm and steady, pulling it into a vortex and collapsing it into a point. Through her tears Aeveth feels her work, and between the two of them the mark becomes dormant again, the bracelet deactivated.

"Tell the arcanist that the vibrations must be perfectly sympathetic in order to magnify the Veil, not dissonant to disrupt it. The clash allows the Fade to rush in through the open spaces, and that torrent will kill you." The green fades slowly from Your Trainer's eyes. "The bracelet can do both. It must be limited to one. Or else it is dangerous. And Inquisitor, I have studied the rifts so that you will not die. Not like the others, who are dead."

Aeveth gets back to her feet, her sadness deepening as the strange inflection returns to Your Trainer's voice. "Is there anything you can do about the Anchor?” she asks.

“No.” Your Trainer blinks once. “The forces of the rifts are incredible. They are not the Anchor, which is different. I manipulate the power of the rifts because I have paid the price. If you want, I can teach you. That I can do. It will be incredible."

Aeveth rubs her eyes tiredly, and wonders who Your Trainer was before her mind was scourged by magic. “Thank you, my trainer," she says, grateful. 

"I am Your Trainer," she replies, and Aeveth takes it to mean _you're welcome._

*** *** ***

It is sunset by the time Aeveth walks through the open door of her quarters, the dying light angling strongly through the glass above the stairs. She passes through the dust-flecked beams, her face warming and cooling, eyes half-closed as she absorbs the last rays of the day. She is worn out but at least the Anchor is shackled again, returned to its uneasy, pulsing slumber. Aeveth can feel it testing the edges of her willpower every now and then.

She shrugs out of her jacket as she reaches the top of the stairs, lets it dangle from loose fingertips. Aeveth means to get changed quickly so that she can join Dorian in the tavern for dinner. Although he has promised to stay as long as he needs to in order to help her, Aeveth doesn’t want to take the time for granted. Minrathous is a long ways from Skyhold, and she knows that it will be impossible to visit him more than infrequently.

She isn't sure which is louder: her shocked gasp, or the sharp clack of the jacket hitting the floor. There is a loose pile of papers on her desk in addition to a small package, and Aeveth reads the situation expertly, putting together the pieces in the time it takes for Cullen to look up from his seat on her bed, her wedding dress clutched in his hands. Bright spots of rainbow-tinged light speckle the walls, dancing with Cullen's every tiny motion.

She swallows, the motion stopping short right above the stone that's appeared in her chest. "Cullen. Commander. I did not expect to see you here."

Cullen stands, puts himself straight into a beam of sunlight. Lit so from the side, his eyes smolder with golden fire. "Inquisitor. Your door was open, and I was...just passing through on the way to Josephine's." He sets the dress down hastily. 

Aeveth kicks herself for not finishing her task before she left. She had taken the dress out of its box, still salty and tearstained, with the intention of getting rid of it, but had been distracted. "You could have sent a runner," Aeveth says, low and even.

"You know me," Cullen replies, the color heightened in his cheeks. "I prefer to be hands-on when possible. You were gone half the day to Maker knows where, and I thought to..."

She puts steel in her spine. "I was at the sanctuary. With Dorian."

Hurt flickers over Cullen's face. "Oh. That's...good," he says, faltering. "With everything that's happened, you should be taking care of yourself."

"I was there to test Dagna's bracelet on the Anchor," Aeveth tells him. "It didn't work. And the magic of the sanctuary is gone now."

Cullen looks taken aback. "Gone?"

"Yes." She holds his eyes as steadily as she can. "Dorian had to cast significant nullifying magic. It disrupted what I had put in place."

"Will you rebuild it?"

"No," Aeveth answers. "What for?"

Cullen's jaw tightens, muscles flexing. "I suppose there is no need, as you seem to have everything sorted."

Aeveth scowls at the barb, striding briskly to the bed, snatching up the dress. "If that's all, _Commander,"_ she says icily, looking up at him, ignoring the fact they are only an armspan apart, "you can see yourself out, and - "

He interrupts her with a softly spoken, "Aeveth."

Aeveth chokes on her anger, drags a breath through her throat. "Don't you dare, Cullen, don't you _dare."_

"I don't want to fight," he continues, and Aeveth almost grinds her teeth. He knows exactly what he's doing. "I've missed you."

"What do you want me to say, Cullen?" she asks him, despairing. "That I've missed you too? Please come back, I'll change? I'll try harder?"

"Have you?" He leans towards her. "Would you? Will you?" His hand floats up to cup the side of her face. Aeveth squeezes her eyes shut, clamping her lips together, stops breathing so hard that she squeaks when her diaphragm spasms. "We still love each other, don't we?"

Aeveth fights with herself; she struggles. Whatever Cullen is offering, she wants to say yes, mixed signals be damned. Oh Maker, she _wants_ him, wants him so much she’d be willing to accept a bad deal for the short term. But experience is the best teacher. She has already walked this path.

“Yes,” she whispers, and then there is nothing but the rushing tides of their breaths, the desperate meeting of their lips. Cullen kisses her and she kisses him back, falls headlong into easy inevitabilities, like his hands on her face, or the bed hitting the backs of her knees. There’s his smile when he touches her, spreading fire; Aeveth wants to be consumed wholesale, turned into ash, blown to sea with ignorance. She would burn for him, she knows. She would burn _with_ him.

With a growl, Aeveth pushes Cullen away, and steps down from her pyre.

“I love you,” she grinds out, leveling her pointer finger at him, “but do not mistake that for blindness. You made this decision, and I expect you to hold to it. You want the truth from me, but if you have it from me I’ll have it from you, too.” She jabs her finger into his breastplate once, twice. “I’ll have the damned truth, Cullen, it will fix nothing, and I won’t love you anymore. If that’s what you want I’ll lay myself bare for you right now. If it isn’t, then kindly remove yourself from my quarters, and _send a fucking runner_ to handle your affairs!”

Aeveth stands, chest heaving, lightheaded, her fury unleashed, and fills the silence with her thistled breathing.

Cullen straightens, his eyes hooded and unreadable. “By your leave, Aeveth,” he says thickly, bowing. He begins retreating. “My apologies for intruding upon your space.”

“I need an office,” she says once he has left, and throws her dress at the floor.

Her room is cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had such a great time with all the comments from the last chapter - thank you to those who chimed in! <3


	10. Chapter 10

“Good morning, your Worship.”

“My name is Aeveth, and good morning, Michel.” He watches Aeveth step out of her temporary quarters, a large rucksack slung over her shoulders. Now that they are neighbors, he finds them spending more time together, their schedules syncing, and he has grown accustomed to their morning walks. Aeveth leaves her room and knocks on his door when the sun is well clear of the battlements, but Michel suspects she rises much earlier than that. Sometimes he hears her door opening and closing in the dead of the night.

“Did I keep you long? I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, pushing himself off the low wall of the walkway above the cloisters, bending to retrieve his own pack. It is mostly empty for the moment; he prefers to travel lightly. Evidently, the same is not applicable to the Inquisitor.

She catches him looking. “Why is it so full?” she asks rhetorically. “Do you know how many notebooks Dorian goes through on his own? And both Dorian and Vivienne are coming along on this trip. Between the three of us, we might as well cut down half the forest in the mountains and pulp it for paper.”

“Your Worship,” Michel says, smiling slightly, “it is but a few days from here to the Frostback Basin, However, I am glad we are bringing a spare horse with us to house your library. Perhaps we can attach a small wain to it.”

“Very funny Michel, very funny.” She rolls her eyes at him in an exaggerated fashion. “So that you are amply entertained, I will pray that we are ambushed by dozens of bandits. There will be plenty for you to hit with your sword. There is no one better than you at it.”

“I do know how to read, your Worship,” he chides her gently as they descend the stairs, heading for the armory. “I do it fairly often.” With thanks to Comte Brevin, who had instilled in Michel a deep respect for literature, if not a love of it. Michel remembers the long afternoons spent drilling letters and sums, struggling to make sense of inky loops which would somehow produce enlightenment. His life in the slums hardly gave him the opportunity to practice his literacy; when the comte had taken him in, he could barely get through a broadsheet. 

By the end of the first month, he had graduated to the Chant and the Dissonant Verses. Comte Brevin had been pleased. “I am impressed,” he had said, and Michel had heard _for an elf-brat_ at the end of his sentence. In those early days he had heard it at the end of every sentence. “I believe my investment will bear fruit.” 

To that Michel only had scowls and black moods as a response. Maker, he had been so hot-tempered back then, and it had not been beaten out of him until he underwent the rigorous training at the Academie. He smiles to himself. He still is hot-tempered, a little.

“What’s so funny now, Michel?” Aeveth asks.

“Nothing, your Worship,” he replies. “Merely a bit of self-reflection.”

“A scholar, a warrior, and a philosopher!” she exclaims as if it is fresh news. Michel chuckles. He allows her to tease him, as his humor is at her expense often enough. “Did you have tactics at the Academie as well?”

“Of course, your Worship.” He holds the armory door open for her.

Aeveth enters, calling out a greeting to the forge workers. They respond, _your Worship_ and _good morning, Aeveth_ mixing in the air. She turns her attention back to Michel. “Why aren’t you on my advisor council again?” she says, playful.

She means it as a joke, but Michel catches the undercurrent to her words. He is well aware of why she has had to move quarters. “Your Worship, I believe those positions had already been filled prior to my arrival.”

Aeveth heaves a gusty sigh. “Trust you to be serious about it. I’m surrounded by serious people. Perhaps I should bring Sera and Bull instead. It will be a party without you and Vivienne. It will be the drinkquisition.” She pushes open the door to the weapon storage room.

Michel snorts. “With all due respect, between the drinking and you eating every bit of greenery you can touch, I doubt you will get far.”

“With all due respect,” Aeveth slingshots back, reaching for a dragon-headed staff, “I only eat the flowers.”

“Of course, your Worship.” Michel belts his sword on over his reinforced riding leathers, then reaches for a brace of daggers. “And occasionally the berries.”

“All right, yes. Sometimes the berries. And perhaps a leaf.” She waits for him to finish checking his weapons.

He holds the door open for her again; she smiles at him as she passes by. “Roots as well,” he says, lengthening his stride so that he will reach the armor depository first. “Have you yet tried bark, your Worship?”

Her lips crinkle in her attempt not to smile. “Maybe,” she replies, drawing the vowel out. 

“Chewing bark like a savage,” Michel laments. “Your skills at preserving your reputation are wondrous.”

She glances at him sharply, brown eyes suddenly calculating, hawk-like. “There are healing teas that can be made from tree bark, Michel. That the knowledge is not readily known to us does not make it the purview of savages.”

“Then that is a question best posed to the Dalish instead of being left to experimentation.” A pause. “Your Worship.”

Aeveth narrows her eyes at him. “I would excuse your views both spoken and unspoken on the account that you are Orlesian,” she says, her tone acquiring such a chill that Michel almost shivers, “but sadly, there is no excuse for being Orlesian.”

He bristles, his hand already halfway to his sword before he stops himself. “Your Worship, were I not sworn to you, I would defend my honor.”

“There is no defense,” she says, caustic. “Your people have little respect for those not in your culture. I have little respect for those who hold themselves to be superior. You are not a fool, Michel. I am certain you have the requisite skills to understand me. This is the Inquisition, not Orlais. What is acceptable there is not acceptable here.” Aeveth picks up a long, armored surcoat, her movements jerky and stiff. “Learn to live with it or change your views, I care not. Keep the elitism to yourself. Remember that there are elves among us, the Dalish especially.”

Michel grimaces. How did they fall into argument so quickly? What Aeveth says is true, however. Michel takes a deep breath and calms himself. Felassan had proven to be a capable companion, even if he took every opportunity to remind Michel of his duplicity. Miss Bria, too, was a skilled player, and a better person than many in her tireless work to improve the lives of the city elves. And Miss Sera, despite their differences, had become a friend.

“My apologies,” Michel says, genuinely contrite. “I did not think my words through, nor the reasoning behind them. I will...do my best to change my thinking.”

“Good,” Aeveth says shortly. “Let me know if you need another tongue-lashing to set you straight.”

He grimaces again. “No need, your Worship, though I am afraid you will deliver them regardless, as you have before.”

"Undoubtedly," she returns, though her voice has softened. "This isn't the first time we have been at odds."

"No, it hasn't," he says, thinking about the pointed glares he received before she declared him anathema to the stable hands, and the two weeks of dirty linens. Aeveth maintains she had only said one week, but allowed at the same time that there might have been some misunderstandings among the washerwomen.

"I don't enjoy it," Aeveth murmurs to him once they leave the armory. Michel raises both his eyebrows. "I don't, Michel. I'm not a fighter."

"Not in the slightest," Michel says before he can help himself. Aeveth glowers and makes a face. "But," he says hastily, before she can speak, "when you are stirred to it, you do well. Especially with words. My dignity has been shredded this morning."

She doesn't apologize, but Michel is unbothered by it. He needs no apology from her. Instead he sighs as he follows her down the steps to the main courtyard, thinking about how he has changed in the last few years. Certainly Aeveth has had a lot to do with it by virtue of forcing him to do commoner chores. Though she would not take kindly to him describing them as such. For a noble, she is enormously sensitive about the treatment of the lowborn. She truly cares about their well-being; the fact that happy peasants perform better means little. Aeveth is concerned solely with their happiness, with no other end result.

"I will fetch the horses, your Worship," he tells her as they approach the stables. Aeveth lifts her hand in greeting to Bonny Sims. "If you would wait?"

"I'm perfectly capable of - oh." She gleans his meaning. "I will wait, then."

"Very good, your Worship." Michel sets his things down and enters the stable. Master Dennet has already begun preparing the quartet of horses; two are in the process of being saddled. Madame Vivienne's hulking war mare is one of them. Michel avoids looking her in the eye as he passes, not wanting to risk a challenge.

Aeveth's courser has her head out of the stall; her ears prick as he approaches. "Hello, beauty," he greets her, patting her on the neck. The mare is almost completely black but for the blaze of white streaking from forelock to just above her nose, and every inch the vain animal. She whickers at him as he speaks. 

"It is time to come out, gorgeous one. Not you," he says dismissively to Cullen's stallion in the next stall over. He pats Aeveth’s horse again. "You, darker than night, pride of the Inquisitor - no, the entire Inquisiton."

Michel attaches a lead rope to the mare's halter, then opens the door. "My queen, your subject has erred grievously. He has not brought treats." He keeps the rope slack and invites her out. She struts, naturally, and sniffs his pockets. "I beg your pardon, o puissant one. Your humble servant will most assuredly go to the kitchens to find you something. Carrots, perhaps? Are you in the mood for pears?"

The mare flicks her ears as she passes by the stallion's stall. Without a pause she lifts her tail; Michel hears telltale thumps. He laughs loudly, then rubs her nose. "I do not know whether to comment on your terrible manners, or commend you for a job well done. If you play the Game like the Inquisitor, then touche, my queen. Such a gesture would not be out of place at Empress Celene's court. We shall pretend you have ruined his life."

Aeveth is waiting at the far end of the barn, arms crossed, resting against the door frame. “She hasn’t tried to kick you yet.” A lopsided smile. “Are you flattering her, Michel de Chevin?”

“I only tell her the truth,” Michel replies, attaching the lead rope to a hook set into the wall. “And the truth is that she is the midnight wind made flesh.”

“Enough, enough!” Aeveth laughs. She walks over and runs her palm over her mare’s nose, then kisses her cheek. “My darling girl, don’t let him charm you away from me. You are the best, and the most beautiful, and the smartest, and - what?”

“It is nothing, your Worship. You are normally so eloquent.” Michel grins.

“What kind of Randy Dowager hogwash has Michel been feeding you?” she says sternly to her mare, holding her face with both hands. “And you ate it up, didn’t you? I am not nearly as shiny nor valorous as he, my best girl. You’ll have to make do.”

Aeveth blinks suddenly, her body freezing. Alarmed, Michel says, “Your Worship?”

“Oh Maker, was that _you?”_ she asks him, incredulous. “In the Randy Dowager?”

Michel shakes his head slowly. “No?”

“Her Majesty’s handsome golden guardian, disgraced and on his knees before the throne, begging forgiveness through penitence of the most salacious kind?” Aeveth begins laughing. “Sweet Maker, it _is_ you!”

His ears feel warm. “I don’t think it is, your Worship.”

Aeveth puts out an arm, braces herself against the wall. She is laughing hard enough to need the support, her knees weakening. “Callipygian cuirassiers!” she manages, sucking down a breath. “The golden guardian, with the noblest of blue eyes, intense with devotion!”

Michel resists the urge to put his face in his hands. He tries a different tack, putting disapproval in his voice. “You read that utter filth, Inquisitor?”

“Filth?” Dorian breaks in. “Do tell. I adore filth.”

“Dorian!” Aeveth gasps, beckoning him over. “The Randy Dowager! Chevalier! Michel!”

“What?” Dorian casts Michel a confused look.

“The one with the golden guardian!” Aeveth points at Michel, then pushes herself back up to standing. “He doesn’t even know he’s in it!”

“Maker’s bouncy buttcheeks, it _is_ you!” Dorian blurts out, delighted. “Look how red he is, Aeveth. Three scarves fluttered out of five!”

The two of them collapse onto each other, laughing.

*** *** ***

Barring a couple of incidents, Aeveth thinks, the trip has been smooth. There is an advantage to having a stronghold in the middle of mostly impassable mountains: the first day of any trip is generally peaceful and carefree on account of the Inquisition-manned outposts along the path.

Aeveth had been nervous about activating her bracelet once out of Skyhold’s range, but there had been no mishap. The new bracelet rests against the bones of her hand now, and if she listens closely Aeveth swears she can hear a low hum coming from it. She touches it, just a brush of her fingertips, and feels the coolness of the magic swirling around it. Aeveth flexes her hand, curls it into a fist. The pain is tolerable for the moment.

Aeveth finds the most inoffensive patch of ground she can, sits down, and stares up at the sky. The sunset is hidden and diffused, light scattered and graying from behind heavy cloud cover. Behind her she can hear Dorian and Vivienne conversing as they finish setting up camp; Michel is to her left, shield in his lap, going through his routine. She watches his fingers slide over the metal, checking for weaknesses. Aeveth doesn’t think he will find many. Their attackers had mere heartbeats to react before Michel’s sword had shivered from its sheath; before they knew it, offense had become disorganized defense. 

She fiddles with the bracelet again, closing her eyes to better focus on walling off the pain. It had grown steadily worse as they descended the slopes, and here in the eastern foothills it is sharpening even with the full effects of the bracelet. Aeveth wonders if she will be able to continue. She had cast a single spell during the encounter, and that had been enough to trigger the Anchor. By the time she had come back to herself, the fight was over.

“Tired?” Dorian hunkers down beside her and holds out some travel bread and strips of jerky.

She takes the bread and meat with one hand, nods her thanks. “Yes, I am.”

“Tea, darling?” Vivienne unfolds a shiny, curious-looking contraption. It becomes a small bench, which she places on the ground. She lights the fire with a graceful wave of her hand, then sits. “I packed some lovely tisanes.”

“No thank you, Vivienne,” Aeveth says. “I appreciate the thought. I should eat, and then go rest.” She gnaws at the travel bread. “How about some stories? I could do with some distraction. Dorian?”

“Is it my turn?” Dorian smiles, the corners of his lips curling up like his mustache. “Have I told you about Archon Tidarion? What he did reminds me a fair bit of you, Vivienne.”

Vivienne leans forward, a dark eyebrow arching, her skin kissed with warmth from the fire. “Is that so, darling? Do tell. Now you have fascinated me.”

Aeveth slouches, back rounding out, and listens to Dorian’s tale. As spirited a storyteller as he is, Aeveth finds the world simplifying down to the slash in her palm and the rapidly narrowing scope of her vision. 

“What about you, Michel? Have you any tales?” asks Dorian once he’s finished.

“Yes, please regale us,” Aeveth mumbles, rousing herself just long enough to give the impression that she’s paying attention.

She barely registers Michel’s low chuckle. “Will you last? Your tent is but a few paces from here, your Worship.”

She waggles her fingers in his general direction. “I will be fine, Michel. I want to hear a story from Orlais. Vivienne has only given us gossip about people I do not know.”

“It isn’t gossip, Aeveth, it’s vital information. You are not normally like this.” Vivienne’s tone is faintly rebuking.

“I don’t even know these people." Aeveth flexes her anchored hand, then closes it into a fist, repeats the gesture.

"Whinge all you like, darling, but one day you will return to Orlais, and you will wish you had this information." Her head tilts in Michel's direction. "Don't you think it prudent, Michel?"

"I am certain it would be useful to specific parties, Madame." Michel reaches over and takes her left hand, his thumbs splaying her palm open, and begins massaging. Aeveth almost moans at the comforting pressure of his touch. She closes her eyes, breathing out through her nose. When she had asked Michel about how chevaliers overcame pain, he'd told her relaxation was the key. She inhales through herself and into the ground, her back and ribs expanding, then exhales them down millimeter by millimeter.

"Yes, your Worship," Michel says in an undertone, and she fixates on the calmness of his voice, the way his hands ease the hurt from hers. It is just the two of them, she and him, the Anchor, the jittering iron shriek of her pain. "Allow the tension to leave. Clear your mind, and master yourself."

His fingers dig deep, moving in circles past the heel of her hand, the paleness of her inner wrist, her veins delicate lace. Michel follows the lines of her forearm all the way to her elbow, and as he works Aeveth feels the Anchor's bite lessen enough for her exhaustion to take over.

"I think it's time you went to bed," Dorian says, his hand light on her shoulder. Aeveth barely opens her eyes, and grunts her response. "Come on. I'll help you."

Aeveth grits her teeth over her whine when Michel's hands leave her. Dorian half-lifts her to her feet and guides her towards her tent. "Boots," he says to her when she is inside. Aeveth can hear his worry. "At least have the decency to take them off."

She sits down hard on her bedroll, yanks her boots off one by one, and drops them next to her. "Satisfied?"

"Quite," Dorian replies. "Rest well."

Aeveth lies down. Her dreams are of green-tinged pain, and a voice she has not heard in over two years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Party in the comment section again, yes? :D


	11. Chapter 11

Aeveth is in the process of breaking down her tent when the Anchor flares strongly, making her knees buckle. She groans aloud and hunches over, her hand held to her chest, the bangle sliding down her arm. The orbiting magic swirls and churns, roils and spikes as if trying to escape.

"Ow," she moans under her breath, then moans again. It is louder this time, the sound pushing up through the vice-clamp of her throat. Another moan, even louder, and then it is like a dam has burst, and Aeveth is on her side in the leaves and the dirt, sobbing. Ozone sears the inside of her mouth like too much mint.

Someone gets a hand under her shoulder, pulls her to sitting. Aeveth hunches against a broad chest, barely registering the contact. Her hand is opening, splitting apart, and she can do nothing but be swept along in the swift current of her pain. The Anchor has caught her unawares and unprepared with the intensity of its magic, and if she weren't so invested in simple survival Aeveth would laugh at herself for relaxing so naively.

Her hand moves. Aeveth realizes in a delayed reaction that it is being held. Gentle magic surrounds the mark, and she has the sensation of folding down, of containment. She hears Dorian's voice, controlled but urgent; Vivienne responds succinctly, her concern tightly leashed in the clipped tones of her accent. Aeveth hangs suspended like this for moments without end, and it is only when the pain ceases completely that she comes back to herself, tears streaking her face, her right hand a white-knuckled claw clamped down on Michel's knee. She is panting as if she has just run several miles.

Dorian and Vivienne's faces loom large when she turns her head to look at them. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Michel's shocked expression, the color drained from his cheeks, leaving him ashen and pale. Dorian and Vivienne are each holding her hand, and Aeveth can tell by the dissipating fragments of magic that they have worked together to stop the Anchor.

"Aeveth," Vivienne says, and her skin is warm upon hers. "Can you talk?"

She nods, and Dorian's fingers tighten upon her. "What..." she croaks, then clears her throat. "Whatever you did, thank you. The pain is gone."

"I am afraid it is only temporary, my dear." She strokes Aeveth's hair. "We have quelled it, but it is a thing that does not wish to be quelled."

"How long has it been bypassing the bracelet?" Dorian asks quietly, his eyes a muted grey in the morning light. 

"Since we neared Haven," Aeveth admits miserably, curling herself into Michel's chest. She is still breathing hard, but Michel's presence is soothing. "I didn't want to make you worry."

"Your boundless optimism will be your death, dear." Vivienne's fingers have not left her head. She tucks errant locks of hair behind Aeveth's ear. "The Anchor has not ceased causing you pain. When it fights those constraints you have set upon it, you must tell us. You must have a care with your own treatment. Think of those who depend on you."

Michel's arms are solid around her, else she would get up and stagger away from them all. Vivienne is right of course, and Aeveth doesn't like it. "I’ll hold on," she says, stubborn. "We must get to the Mouth of Echoes. I need to know if there are any somnaboria left."

"Aeveth," Dorian says, his voice tender, "I do not think you can go on at this point. At any rate, this is an exploratory mission. You need not be present. Whatever we find, we will bring back to you."

"But - " Aeveth begins. Dorian raises both eyebrows. "But you're leaving soon, and we...we don't...I want to go, Dorian." Her chest aches, and something hot sweeps across her eyes.

"I said I would stay as long as needed. I won't run off before our task is completed." He stands, then offers Aeveth his hand. She clasps it, and lets Dorian pull her up. "It will not take long. But in your condition I don't think you can continue. It took both Vivienne and me to ease the mark down, and I have not the skill Your Trainer has."

Aeveth scowls. "Dorian."

"Do not let the pain cloud your judgment, darling." Vivienne almost sounds motherly. "You are fragile at this time. If our roles were reversed, you would be the one sending me home." She gets back to her feet, patting the dirt away. "You have a logical mind. Use it."

"Fine," Aeveth snaps. "Then there is no need for all of us to return to Skyhold. You and Dorian can continue journeying south. Michel will accompany me back. I will send either Sera or Varric with him on the return, and you can all meet at camp. The more quickly we can get this done, the more happy I will be."

"All right." Dorian gives her a brief hug. "Why don't you saddle your horse? The rest of us can finish packing up."

Aeveth nods, and goes to seek comfort in the strength of Keeper's broad black neck.

*** *** ***

There are glass vials clinking annoyingly in Aeveth’s saddlebags, but she steadfastly ignores them, keeping her gaze firmly forward, teeth clenched hard enough to make her jaw jut out. They hit each other with every roll of her horse’s hips: _tink tink, tink-tink_. Michel glances at her meaningfully every so often, but she pretends not to notice. Her dark brows are drawn together on her forehead, a crease forming between them, and if Michel did not know any better he would say that the Inquisitor was sulking.

But he does know better.

Michel relaxes into the saddle and allows his consciousness to expand, focusing on nothing and everything. A wind had blown some of the clouds away overnight, leaving the sky partially clear, stippled in white. The brightness of the mid-morning sun is heartening, and gives him excellent visibility. He observes the road as they travel; as long as they stay on the path, their trip should be uneventful. The rhythmic sway of his horse is pleasant and welcome. Less pleasant is the constant clack of glass on glass.

He endures it for roughly an hour before he finally gets irritated. "I am surprised," Michel says once the sound is the only thing he can hear, "that you did not also yield your supplies of ink when you gave Dorian and Madame Vivienne all the notebooks."

 _Tink tink, tink._ She continues not looking at him. "I felt they had enough," she responds.

"With all the paper you have given them, I am surprised you think so." Michel stares at her thoughtfully. Her saddlebags had felt overly heavy when he’d slung them over her horse. "It is rather at odds, don't you think?"

Aeveth’s eyes flick to the right, towards him. “No. Perhaps I have a surplus.”

Michel inclines his head, acknowledging the possibility. “Or perhaps you are carrying something you do not wish the others to see.” There was no disguising the alarm that rippled through her friends when he had told them how long she spent in her laboratory. Michel does not know the details, but if it is enough to make even the Iron Bull click his tongue, then whatever they are afraid of is serious.

She compresses her lips. “I do not know whether to commend you or curse you for your excellent observational skills.”

“I would prefer the commendation, your Worship,” Michel says.

Aeveth’s head snaps to the side, her glare bladed and sharp as she casts it upon him. Michel recoils slightly, then pulls back more as she knees her mount so close that their boots touch. Angrily, she thrusts out her right hand. “Hello,” she half-growls. “My name is Aeveth. What is your name?”

He takes her hand and shakes it, not wanting to rouse more of her ire than he already has. Michel keeps his face smooth, willing away the frown that hovers around the sides of his mouth. Showing her how much he is bothered by her erratic behavior will only anger her further, and judging from her state earlier in the morning, he knows Aeveth’s patience and tolerance is barely holding.

“My name is Michel, your Worship.” The honorific slips out easy, involuntary.

“Maferath’s wrinkly ballsack!” She glowers at him. “Why do you insist on calling me that?”

“It is a reminder of who you are,” Michel responds. “That you are the Inquisitor, and you demand respect.”

“What I demand,” Aeveth retorts, eyes flashing, “is that you cease using my honorific. You are not my subject, and I am not your queen. Or empress.”

Michel blinks and exhales, not taking the bait. “You are not, that much is true,” he says calmly. “Yet you cannot deny your role. You bear the Anchor. You are the Inquisitor. You are also Aeveth Trevelyan, daughter of a noble house. Why should I seek to separate that which is inseparable? Your deeds command respect, and people give it to you freely. Do not cast it off like it is unwanted.”

“It _is_ unwanted,” she mutters. “All of it.”

“Even your title?” he asks, astonished.

“Especially my title,” she says, and looks away.

The concept is jarring and foreign to him. Michel will never forget the hard years spent surviving, fighting for scraps, being grateful for pittances. “Truly? When it shields you from a peasant’s life?”

“Shields me?” Aeveth laughs, bitter. “Tell me, Michel de Chevin, how did my title shield me from being sent to the Circle when I was six? How did my title shield me from those would would prey on a child, or from the repercussions of being a mage? No one cares that you are noble-born. Only that you are a brat, like all the others. And the young ones are the most vulnerable.” 

Her jaw clenches again; her hands are balled into fists on the reins. Her horse sidesteps nervously, snorting. “No, Michel. The only shield I have been given is myself. None other.”

“Yourself?”

Aeveth forces out a breath. “Yes, myself. I know it was unintentional, but shield is more fitting a description than you know.”

Michel waits, but after a few moments it seems there is nothing more forthcoming. Aeveth refuses to look at him, and he does not pursue the issue further. The vials continue to clash in her bags.

*** *** ***

She picks up the conversation several hours later, as they let the horses walk. Aeveth has spoken little, silenced by her battle with the Anchor. During their short lunch break she had come up to him, left arm bared, eyes tight, wearing her pain like a mantle. Michel had taken her hand in his, thumbs moving over smooth skin, repressed his shudder at the overly cool touch of her bracelet, tried his best to ignore the prickle of discomfort on the back of his neck when the magic passed through his fingers. Magic had always unnerved him despite his years of training, but the sound of Aeveth’s sigh coupled with the relief on her face made the discomfort worth tolerating.

“I was the shield,” Aeveth says almost too softly for him to hear, and Michel is startled on recognizing the hurt in her voice. “I am the shield. I have always been the shield.” She speaks more strongly now. “Did you know, Michel, that the Ostwick Circle was more peaceful than most? Fewer incidents between mages and templars. Fewer incidents between mages and apprentices, templars and apprentices.”

She bites down lightly on the fingers of her glove, pulls it off, and holds it with her other hand. She then leans forward, stroking her palm over her horse’s neck. “I had a lot to do with that. All those words you would use to describe me now - protector, shield, deliverer - they are rooted in what I was there.”

“You used your wits,” Michel says, quiet with the heaviness of her revelation.

“I never said I used my wits, Michel.” She straightens, avoids meeting his eyes.

“You said the only shield you have been given is yourself.” And then it strikes him. Michel finds he is short of breath, reeling under her burden.

“You have a good memory,” Aeveth says, smilling faintly. “You see, Michel, my title matters little when it comes to sacrifice and endurance. I do not want to be held up as something I am not. What I did was not altruism. It was necessity. The necessity gave me a power advantage, which allowed me to play.” She sighs, tipping her head back, looking up at the sky. “It’s funny and a little sad that this is what I never wanted anyone to know, least of all Cullen, and here I am telling you with barely any prompting.”

 _A long stick, split from a wagon slat. A group of dirt-streaked, grimy elven boys, barefoot on the cobblestones, surrounding the one boy who had been brave enough to call the shamefully human-blooded child a friend. Shouts and scuffles, jaded adults walking by with hardly a glance. The visceral satisfaction of wood striking flesh, the satisfaction of pained yells._

The situations are not the same, but Michel is reminded anyway.

“Why didn’t you want him to know?” he asks, but he thinks he knows the answer.

Aeveth laughs shortly. “I was afraid of his judgment. His views have not always been so nuanced. Or perhaps he would be envious of my knowledge of templars.” At that she laughs more loudly. “That was a joke, all right?”

Michel chuckles politely. “You didn’t think he would accept what you did? The commander believes in action. He would not begrudge what you thought was necessary. Especially as he still cares for you.”

Aeveth pats her horse's neck again. “There is nothing to be done about it. Cullen might be able to look past what I did in the Circle, but he won’t even get the opportunity to do so.”

“For what little it is worth, your - “ Michel stops himself. It feels unfitting, now. “For what little it is worth, Aeveth, I will not judge you harshly. You protected others with no regard to yourself. I think it admirable of you.”

“Ah,” she says, surprised. “Thank you.” She fidgets nervously. “I trust you will keep this in confidence."

"Of course, your Worship," Michel says.

"Michel." Aeveth sounds tired.

"I know," he says. "I will try to use your honorific less."

Their exchange lags again, and Aeveth uses it as an opportunity to resume their pace. The early afternoon flows by, the sounds of the forest strengthening with the rays of the sun. They intersperse periods of trotting with cantering, and it is a credit to their breeding and care that both horses are continually game, responding to every command given.

Michel observes Aeveth as she rides. She is more than an adequate horsewoman, and from what he knows she is probably also a decent judge of horseflesh. As promised, Aeveth had sent a pair of Trevelyan hotbloods to Celene's stables at Halamshiral. Michel had been in the courtyard the day they had arrived for a short rest at Skyhold, and had watched with a poignant wistfulness as Master Dennet oohed and aahed over their conformation and excellent body condition.

Aeveth's mare drops back into a trot, nostrils flaring, and tosses her head. "You'll tire yourself out," Aeveth chides her gently. "We have a ways to go yet." Her horse's tail swishes, but she slows to a walk.

"What is her name?" Michel asks. "You have not said."

"Master Dennet calls her Git," Aeveth replies, smiling, and Michel nods. He has heard Dennet holler it on more than one occasion. "But her name is Keeper." 

Her smile turns into a grin at his raised eyebrows. "I am not good with names," she explains. "Master Dennet had a crop of four-year-olds brought up. He had me walk through and look at them all. I got to Keeper, and I swear by the Maker she winked at me, then posed as if she were having her portrait painted." She flips a lock of her horse's mane over to the correct side. "I said to him, 'Keep her, do what you will with the rest.' And that ended up sticking."

She pauses for a second, scrubbing her fingers through Keeper's mane. "What of you, Michel? You need a horse of your own, but none in the stables has caught your fancy. Surely our stock is suitable."

Michel thinks of Cheritenne's dying screams, and his rage comes boiling back, coppery and heavy in his chest. "Your Worship," he says thickly, swallowing. "It is not the stock that is lacking. I am not yet ready."

Aeveth's eyes are large and liquid in the late afternoon light, her expression one of sadness. "My apologies," she says, breathy and low. "I did not realize."

In that moment Michel realizes how striking she is astride her horse, her surcoat spread behind her, the sun warming her in tones of rose and gold. Aeveth wears tragedy well it seems; the pain she suffers only serves to accentuate the angular features of her face, tingeing the air around her with a haunting sorrow, making her look like some heroic figure out of a fairy tale. With a start Michel reminds himself that she already is a legendary woman. It is easy to forget between the chores and her insistence that he call her by her given name, easy to ignore because he is practiced at ignoring it. Easy, too, to forget that she is beautiful. Michel acknowledges it, but seldomly lets it affect him.

He is affected now, temporarily speechless under her eyes, her compassion curling tight around his heart.

"Michel?" Aeveth urges Keeper closer and reaches out, her hand so light on his arm he almost can't feel it through his sleeve. "Have I given offense?"

"No," Michel replies, clearing his throat. "Pardon me, Aeveth. I was just remembering.”

“I’m sorry.” She withdraws her hand, opening up space between them.

“I will be fine. It happened years ago.”

“Still, it’s clear his passing pains you. Shall we try distraction?” Aeveth tucks her hair behind her ear and smiles at him. “What was the story you intended to tell last night?”

He hesitates.

“Having trouble remembering?” Her smile has not faded, but there is no strain around her eyes from holding it, no sense of fakeness.

“It was about an elf named Alidda. Chevalier-killer, knight-slayer.” Michel questions the wisdom of telling the tale now that he has spoken it aloud.

Aeveth’s mouth twists with amusement. “An interesting choice, Michel. A chevalier telling me about - what was her name again?”

“I am no longer a chevalier,” Michel says evenly, “and her name was Alidda, one of the most infamous criminals in all of Orlesian history. It is said she slew three chevaliers before she was brought to court in 4:45 Black.”

“Only three?” Aeveth runs her eyes up and down his body, skeptical. “I would be more impressed if they were all like you.”

He shrugs, his left shoulder lifting. “As it turns out, she had slain twelve chevaliers. Then she escaped her imprisonment and killed another twenty before she was cornered and took her own life.”

“Michel,” Aeveth says, her eyebrows drawing together again, “this is a depressing story. Why did she hate chevaliers so much?”

He had known she would ask, and he had kept on regardless. Michel isn’t sure when he learned to seek masochism. 

“Alidda was an elf, and wanted revenge for the injustices done by the chevaliers.”

Aeveth frowns and tilts her head. “But thirty-two chevaliers? How much injustice was done?”

“A great deal, your Worship.” Michel puts the formality back into his words. “They killed her family and her neighbors.” He watches her carefully as she processes, can see her mind leaping to conclusions.

“Over what?” she asks.

He takes his time answering. “An insult of some sort, most likely.”

Aeveth’s lip curls with disgust. “How could an elf possibly insult a nobleman to provoke such a response? It isn’t possible. What truly happened, Michel? And don’t tell me you don’t know. You were schooled well, and Orlais keeps her history proudly.”

Not wisdom, but foolishness and idiocy. Michel’s stomach is a pit of foreboding knowing that Aeveth will have the truth from him. “They were testing their blades, your Worship.”

“On the elves,” Aeveth grates out.

Michel nods. “On those out after curfew.”

“On those who have no choice but to live trapped inside a slum, on those who cannot fight back? On those who are captive to the whims of their oppressors?” She keeps her tone remarkably level, but there is fire singeing her voice, darkening it to the timbre she uses for judgment. “You said it was during the Black Age. That was five hundred years ago. Orlais does not change easily.” Little by little, her eyes narrow. “Did you do this? What did they tell you to justify this butchery?”

_Darkness, the scent of fear. The rattle of carriage wheels over poorly-kept streets, mutters about how filthy the alienage is, how primitive, knife-ears, knife-ears. He will go alone instead of with the others. Better that way, to finish things quickly. Swords ring as they clear sheaths._

“They told me a lord had been insulted twice by an elf, and a lady once.”

“You knew it to be a lie.”

He nods again. Justice had not been the point. “I did.”

“How did you end them?” Aeveth’s words are pushed out from behind the barrier of her gritted teeth.

_No children. No young ones. No mothers, especially no mothers. There is bile corroding the back of his throat. It makes it hard to swallow his horror down. The old fear races fluttering through his veins. He will not check the trash heaps. He will not want to see himself cowering there._

_He swallows strongwine messily instead. Enough of it and it will drown the misery._

Michel closes his eyes for a second. “Swiftly, without suffering.”

Aeveth wears her hurt so clearly on her face that Michel flinches at the sight of it. “There was no need,” she says passionately; a tremor shakes the vowels of the last word. “You didn’t have to. They were innocent, and you knew it.”

Michel holds his head high, remembering what Gaspard had said to him. _You’re a damned model for a chevalier, no matter what blood runs in your veins._ It rings hollow, used in this fashion.

“Honor dictated it.” Michel bolsters his voice to keep it from faltering.

“Maker _take_ your honor,” Aeveth snarls at him. “What kind of honor kills those who cannot fight back? All chevaliers are nobles, aren’t they? Sworn to uphold the glory of Orlais? What glory is this, Michel? What use is the title when it is the sword and not the shield?

“You wanted to know my reasons for discarding my title. Here is a good one. Thirty-two good ones, and now I wish Alidda had killed more.” Aeveth eyes are like coals, sparking with her rage. “Do you regret it, Michel? Do you regret it at all?”

He answers truthfully, as his honor demands. This part of him has been locked away for years. If there is residual emotion, he cannot feel it. “No.”

Aeveth draws herself up imperiously, and suddenly she is ice, not fire. “I thought I had judged your character more accurately,” she manages, livid. “I was wrong.”

Keeper spooks when Aeveth’s heels dig in. She snorts, indignant at her treatment, but breaks into a gallop anyway, the muscles of her hindquarters bunching. Michel holds his horse’s reins and stares after Aeveth. A small cloud of fine dust rises from the road, kicked up by Keeper’s hooves. 

Michel clicks to his mount, and rides through it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot just happened, it's hard for me even to make sense of all the little things - feel free to gab in the comments!


	12. Chapter 12

There is something wrong with Aeveth, but Michel cannot tell precisely what it is.

Her new office is still under construction. There is scaffolding and sawdust everywhere, and when a particularly strong wind blows it sets the many stacks of papers flapping. There are dozens of them, and Aeveth has helped the masons with cleanup in this regard: every pile of paper he can see has upon it a piece of stone or rubble, pinning it down. Despite the clutter it is nevertheless a larger and better space to work in than her laboratory, even if half the windows are missing glass.

This morning Aeveth is standing hunched over her desk. It is the only piece of furniture in the office save for an accompanying chair and a small bookshelf. Aeveth has an oversized compass in her hands, her bottom lip held between her teeth as she grounds the point of it into the cork padding beneath a large piece of paper. She marks the paper with an almost mechanical precision, then draws the circle swiftly, surely. Her expression does not change as she removes the compass and sets it aside to inspect her work. She is the very picture of concentration, brows slightly furrowed, eyes narrowed, intent.

Michel clears his throat lightly. He is perhaps five paces from her but she pays him no attention, picking up a slender piece of charcoal, setting it to the paper, her hand steady through curving loops and intricate geometric shapes. He waits, and still she does not stop her work. Words appear in a language Michel does not recognize. Aeveth spins the paper slowly as she writes, her penmanship fluid and elegant.

Michel clears his throat again. “Aeveth?”

She looks up, and their eyes meet. Michel blinks, draws a soft breath. There is a sense of detachment about her; he senses nothing behind her eyes, and her gaze is too blank, too stable. Michel knows that an even stare contains within it small, involuntary eye motions; Aeveth’s eyes are disconcertingly still. 

In half a second the feeling is gone. Aeveth blinks quickly, her face settling into the pleasant, professional mien she uses for Inquisition business.

“Michel,” she says, her voice chesty and low, indicating competence and dominance, not friendship. They are not equals today. “You have answered my summons promptly.”

“Yes, your Worship,” he replies, “although I have been waiting for several minutes.”

There is a split second of delay before her head tilts to the side and a look of polite apology appears. “I was engrossed in my project. I trust that the wait was not disagreeable.”

He forces down his irritation, concerns himself instead with observing her every action. He has been acquainted with her long enough now to know that distance and coolness is her preferred way of showing her displeasure. The flatness of her eyes and her voice; the expressions she wears that seem choreographed instead of spontaneous; even the ruthlessly efficient way in which she conducts herself; they all add up into a nagging sense of worry. Something isn’t right.

“Not at all, your Worship,” Michel says. “I am at your service.”

Another blink, her eyelids flicking down over pupils that are too large for the amount of light in the room. “Excellent,” she says. “I have something for you. I think you will find it intriguing.”

He debates asking after her as she leaves her desk and walks to the bookshelf, cluttered haphazardly with items in no discernable order. Although they have their differences, Aeveth has become a friend, a rarity among rarities. Michel can count the number of friends he has on a single hand.

Aeveth picks up a rectangular wooden case and brings it back. Michel opens his mouth just as she sets the box down. 

“Is something amiss, your Worship?” His words tumble over hers.

He expects clamped lips at being interrupted, or a snort of air through her nostrils. Perhaps a straightening of her back. She does nothing of the sort.

“Not at all, Michel. Everything is fine.” She makes eye contact with him again, doesn’t glance up and to the left, doesn’t so much as twitch to give away her lie. His only proof is his sense of discomfort. Aeveth digs her fingers underneath the latch on the box and flips the lid open.

“When I got back to Skyhold,” she says, “I kept thinking about your story.” The inflections of her voice are still dulled, but Michel finds he can’t do anything but stare down at the weapon in the box. It is dual-bladed and old, the leather around the grip falling to pieces. The longer blade is single-edged, curved, keen enough to cut sense from reason. It glows crimson with malevolence.

“This is Knightslayer.” Aeveth’s lips thin into a smile, a crescent moon sharp and pointed on her face. “I thought something in your tale sounded familiar. It took me some time, but I found this in our armory. Knightslayer, Alidda’s weapon, lost for hundreds of years before being recovered. It now passes to you.”

Michel grips the table, shame and anger hot in his chest. The implications of the gift are not lost upon him; indeed, she had known exactly how he would interpret it. “What is the meaning of this?” he growls.

“To help you remember, in case you forget.” She shows traces of emotion finally. The box snaps shut, staccato, and Aeveth’s hand is flat upon the lid. “Perhaps you can set it on a stand in your quarters so that you may see it every day. I have been told a mirror will help display it more effectively.”

Michel grits his teeth over a swear. “Your Worship is too kind,” he says, jaw clenched. 

“Speaking of chevaliers. I have been wondering, Michel.” Aeveth spins the box and shoves it at him. “We never did find out what caused you to be disgraced and cast out from court. From all our reports you have never done anything wrong. Never taken a misstep, never shrank from your duty. And yet you stand here before me as a simple soldier and not a chevalier. How did that come to be?”

Her eyes glint cold and black.

Michel shunts aside his indignation and answers truthfully again. “I was disgraced on account of my honor. Your Worship.”

There’s the derisive snort he’s been expecting. “Michel, all of this has been predicated upon the conjecture that you lack honor.”

“On the contrary.” Michel gives back as good as he gets. “I kept my word, and it cost me everything. Briala once saved my life, and in return I owed her a debt. Celene had tasked me with dueling Gaspard for the right to rule the empire. Briala called upon her favor as I was about to strike the final blow. She asked me to yield.” He pauses, and this time it she who is at the mercy of his glare. 

Michel allows a second to pass, then two, then three. He lets the tension stretch past five heartbeats. If Aeveth wants to play, then he will humor her. 

“I yielded,” he says finally.

“It was you?” Aeveth’s mouth hangs open in shock. “Celene lost Orlais because of _you?”_

“As I said, your Worship,” and this time the honorific is a barb, a slight. “Honor dictated that I keep my word. Even to an elf.”

Aeveth is still stupefied. “You _yielded?”_

He finds satisfaction in how thoroughly she is disarmed. “For the third time, yes."

She staggers, then fumbles for her chair. Michel holds against the assault of her feelings, the confusion, the wild disbelief. "By all rights you should have fulfilled your duty to Celene," she says, dazed. "That should have superceded all else. The empire is more important than your word. And yet you yielded."

"Death before dishonor, your Worship." His voice is grave. "I promised her I would do anything she asked of me when she asked it."

Aeveth exhales loudly. "Are you telling me, Michel, that the honor code of the chevaliers is actually _personal_ for you? You aren't one anymore. Why follow it?"

He allows a small smile. "Who am I if not a man of my word, your Worship? I will live my life with the honor instilled in me. I will face all battles with courage, and remain true to my convictions and beliefs. Chevalier or not, I will die happy knowing I have followed those principles."

There is more silence as they stare at each other. Papers rustle loudly like so many roosting birds.

"You have surprised me." Aeveth's eyes are unreadable as she looks at him. "I will think about what you said. Good day, Michel. Take Knightslayer with you."

Michel bows, dismissed, and leaves with the box in his hands.

*** *** ***

The day of the ritual dawns clear and dry, with only the sweep of icy clouds marring the otherwise perfect blue of the sky. It is entirely too perfect a day to spend preparing for something as ambitious and dangerous and mad as this, and as their large group finally rides out from Skyhold Michel wonders how they all fell headlong into group insanity. Either Aeveth has a silver tongue or the force of her will is too great. 

Or both. Michel is certain that it is both; he has experienced both. He has also been defeated by the bludgeon of her words. She has his grudging admiration in that regard. Sometimes he entertains the private notion that Aeveth is part Orlesian.

Michel sighs, his eyes drawn to a nondescript box lashed to the back of her saddle. What she proposes is complete lunacy. Not that he would tell her more than once. She is uninclined to listen, and has learned from Sera how to tell him where to put his opinion. Aeveth wants the Anchor off her hand, and that is that.

He doesn't even understand how it is supposed to work. Magic, he knows. There will be a lot of the cursed stuff, so much so that Aeveth, Dorian, and Vivienne are at risk of permanently thinning the Veil at the ritual site. That is the extent of his knowledge. Michel is much more familiar with what happens once the Veil is thinned, and although he is frightened of the things that come through, at least the problems can be solved with the sharp silken edge of his blade. He much prefers it when the answer to the question is several feet of honed silverite. Magic, though. Magic confounds him, scares him, makes him uncomfortable, although life with Aeveth has shifted his perspective a little.

Aeveth guides them to a small, flat stretch of land that lies hidden between the mountains. It is accessible via a winding, barely-visible path that splits from the main road, roughly half a bell's easy ride from Skyhold. She rides in the front, flanked by Cullen and Dorian; Keeper trots proudly, snorting occasionally. 

They dismount and secure the horses, then array themselves on the hard, packed dirt. In the center of the site is the stump of a tree freshly cut down. Upon it sits a pedestal, and upon that the small, black orb he and the others had brought back after three wretched weeks in the Frostback Basin. _Somnaborium_ , Dorian had called it. It was the only intact one they had found. Dorian had exclaimed with delight when they finally drew it from the tunnel walls, excited to be holding a piece of ancient Tevinter history. 

Michel had refused to touch it, thinking it looked elven instead. He was done with that foulness.

The stump is surrounded by several concentric circles drawn into the dirt. Inside each of the circles - glyphs, he can hear Dorian say - are inscribed runes, shapes, and words, reminding him of what Aeveth was working on when he had been summoned to her office. He has not spoken with her much since; he hasn't had much to say. When he looks at Knightslayer laying on his dresser, he finds the words cut away from his throat. Aeveth herself has been extraordinarily busy, meeting with Dorian and Vivienne for hours at a time, bustling to and from her still unfinished office with rolls of parchment held delicately under each arm. The frequency of her midnight trips has increased. Michel often wakes to the slam of her door rattling the wall of his room.

"Here, Dorian." Aeveth tries to hand him a sheet of paper with more indecipherable scrawls on it.

Dorian shakes his head. "I have it. You should look to yourself, Aeveth. Your task is monumentally complicated. You must devote all your concentration to it. Don't worry about Vivienne or me."

"You two are well-coordinated, then?" Aeveth asks, her chin lifting so that she can meet Vivienne's eyes.

"Yes, darling. We are ready." Her full mouth curves into a smile. "As Dorian said, be concerned solely with yourself. The rest of us are here to assist as needed."

 _The rest of us_ , Michel thinks, _half of Skyhold, approximately._ For the ritual, Aeveth has gathered a handful of senior mages, Your Trainer and Viuus Anaxas included, and matched them with an equal number of templars. Ser Briony stands next to Cullen, her black, wiry hair bound in a no-nonsense chignon, her youthful, dark face impassive and stoically beautiful. A pace behind her is Ser Gavin, his helm held against his hip, startlingly green eyes fixed upon Aeveth as she makes the last few preparations. Lysette is present as well, standing straight-backed at attention beside Gavin.

Iron Bull is roughly a dozen paces away, grouped up with Sera, Varric, and Cole. Michel joins them, feeling uneasy at the amount of magic already in the air, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. Iron Bull has his arms crossed, his eye trained on Dorian, his expression indecipherable as he watches him confer with Aeveth. 

The sunlight flashes off the many rings Dorian wears, the gems sparkling as he gestures. Aeveth too is bedecked in jewelry, magical rings adorning almost every finger, multiple necklaces with crystal focuses pressing a valley into the fabric of her tunic. Michel raises an eyebrow as Vivienne fastens a golden belt around her waist, raises the other when she buckles on another. Between the three of them, Skyhold’s vaults must stand empty.

Michel looks away and breathes evenly, calming his mind, settling into the trance-like state of reactive awareness. Aeveth walks over to Cullen to speak with him, touches him briefly on the arm. The gesture is overly familiar, Michel thinks, and when Cullen looks at her there is no disguising the helpless worry in his eyes. There is sadness too every time Cullen’s eyes stray to the tree stump, but Michel doesn’t know why.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Cullen asks her. “The combination of magic you have planned has never been attempted before. You haven’t cast these glyphs in this fashion. What if the ambient magic fields react violently?”

“I have few options, Cullen,” Michel hears Aeveth say. “Taking any action at all is better than taking none. Remember your promise. Don't hesitate.” A brief, fond smile. "If something goes awry, I'm counting on you." She takes a step closer and leans in then, her voice dropping. Whatever her words are, they must be painful; Cullen pales and shuts his eyes.

"Cullen." Aeveth's tone is gentle yet firm. Her hand finds his.

"I will." He cups her cheek, strokes his thumb over her skin. Aeveth does not react, only blinks up at him.

Then the moment is over as Aeveth frees her hand and places herself at the center of the glyphs, nodding at both Dorian and Vivienne. 

The ritual begins with little fanfare considering how momentous an occasion it will be should it succeed. Aeveth seeks to graft the Anchor onto the somnaborium, and while Michel cannot fault her for trying to rid herself of it, he also can’t shake the feeling that it will result in disaster. Aeveth is a more than capable mage; the fact that both Dorian and Vivienne respect her is proof of it. What she has planned has all worked out in theory, but Michel is not such an optimist that he would trust in simulation over cold reality.

Dorian and Vivienne take up spellcasting stances on either side of the circles, their staves held low behind them. The barrier flowers up from Vivienne first, the air shimmering around her for a split second before it expands, blooming, into a half-sphere large enough to cover the distance between her and Dorian. Dorian is next, and while Michel has been told that Dorian’s task is to invert the barrier and keep it from grounding, he has no understanding of what it actually means. In practice all Dorian does is perform a normal casting movement, and a second barrier appears inside the first. It is visible for a split second before it touches Vivienne’s, melding into it like a soap bubble.

Aeveth plants her staff in front of her, her eyes closed, and the white glow of magic springs to life around her, a nimbus cloud backlit by the brightness of the sun. The intricate, complicated markings on the ground flare to life, golden sparks traveling along the lines. The reaction begins on the outermost circle and spreads to the inside within a second, then spirals up the tree stump and pedestal until the orb itself is slashed with thrumming, radiant energy.

The Anchor activates with a crackling hiss, emerald streams of light wreathing Aeveth’s hand, crawling vine-like up her naked wrist. Through the barrier Michel can see Aeveth’s face contort suddenly with pain, a gasp escaping her. She holds her stance however, and the Anchor’s light focuses into jagged beams, green lightning spidering out until it strikes the invisible wall of the barrier. The tendrils of energy writhe and probe along the barrier as if alive, seeking egress. Vivienne and Dorian begin to show signs of stress. The gleams of the crystals at the tops of their staves strengthen into incandescent silver stars.

Aeveth reaches for the orb with her left hand. Lightning torrents and pours from the mark, and Michel smells the particular scent of the earth before it rains. Pearly flame catches in Aeveth’s eyes, runs like tears down the sides of her face, expands into a halo around her head. Michel knows Aeveth is a skeptic, understands that she hates being called the Herald of Andraste more than anything else, but in this moment with her hand outstretched, the outlines of her body blurred in a pyretic haze, she is divinity itself, raw and terrible, a vision from the Maker rendered in the brilliant tumult of the Fade.

Her fingertips touch the orb. In an instant the lightning coalesces into a single bolt. It strikes the orb, smashes into it, and the shockwave thunders out clamorous against the dome of the barrier. Dorian reels, then drives his staff into the ground, leaning heavily against it as he maintains the spell, his free hand shaking. The magic around Vivienne dims ever so slightly before it she pours more of her power into her spell, her face resolute with determination, her teeth bared.

Michel feels his alarm battering at the edges of his composure. It has been less than a minute since the ritual has begun and already the two most powerful mages he knows are tiring. Aeveth’s arm is nothing but a blinding mass of energy pulsing in time to the elevated beat of her heart. Michel’s skin pebbles into goosebumps at the sight, his stomach roiling with disquiet and dread.

Michel spies movement, turns his head, sees Cullen take an unthinking step forward. The commander’s face is tight with fear. Whether it is fear of Aeveth or fear for Aeveth, he cannot tell; it is likely both. Cullen stops himself, holds himself taut and unmoving as long seconds pass. The crackles and whistles of the Anchor's magic build in a crescendo, become overwhelmingly, painfully loud.

And then it is over abruptly, the light diminishing, winking out so fast Michel has to blink rapidly, trying to clear his vision of the afterimages. The barriers vanish, leaving Dorian and Vivienne to stumble over exhausted feet. Bull sweeps forward; Dorian collapses into his arms. Vivienne clings to her staff, worn out, sweat running down her temples.

Aeveth remains swaying in the center of the glyphs, breathing hard, clutching her staff, her forehead against it. The marks in the dirt have melted beneath her feet, the once-smooth lines lumpy and malformed, smoking as they cool. She too looks spent, her face haggard and shadowed, no longer heavenly but enervated and earthly. 

The crowd exhales a collective breath.

Aeveth holds up a hand, stopping Cullen in his tracks. She shakes her head no, then picks up the orb with her left hand, her head canting to the side to observe it. It is surrounded in a cloud of sickly, whirling green. 

"Well," Aeveth says, her voice full of relief, "it seems to have -"

The explosion drives everyone off their feet, punches them into the ground. The sound is deafening. Michel is one of the first to regain his wits and struggle to his feet, eyes and skin hot with pain, his hands pressed to ears that cannot hear anything but a single whining tone. As he gets up, his blood racing with adrenaline, he notes with dismay the ashy ring of the fallen. They lie so still that Michel thinks they could be dead.

There is dust and dirt everywhere; Michel coughs, doubling over, grit caking his lips, coating the inside of his mouth. _Aeveth,_ he thinks, stunned, panic a rushing current beneath his detachment. Sunlight filters weakly through the murk. Michel's limbs move jerkily as he tries to walk, careening uncoordinated from foot to foot. He is the only one moving, thanks to his training, the only one able to reach the epicenter of the blast.

Step by step his hearing returns; step by step the dust falls and settles. "Aeveth!" Michel hears Cullen shouting, his voice hoarse and cracking. _"Aeveth!"_

The sunbeams form a pillar of light, the illumination harsh and merciless. _Maker, no,_ Michel thinks, sickened, his self-control fragmenting. His feet continue to bring him forward through the glittering, fine dust. It drifts down into a shallow crater the size of the largest magical circle. Everything within its borders has been obliterated, vaporized. Of the tree nothing remains but splintered, gnarled roots. The pedestal, the orb, and Aeveth herself are all gone.

“Aeveth!” Cullen shouts again, his expression anguished, but it’s no use. She is likely with the dust motes being swept away by the summer wind.

Michel trips over something, skids in the dirt, lands on his hands and knees in the smoldering center of the crater. Despite the searing heat he shivers hard, the back of his mouth souring with bile. The air shimmers around him; wrong, it’s all wrong, so wrong. There is something wrong, and as he lifts his head he can hear it hovering intangible above the scorched, burnt soil. His blood curdles when he recognizes the sound.

It is the unending echo of Aeveth’s scream, shrill and thin, horrifying, horrific.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Penny for your thoughts.


	13. Chapter 13

“My friend.”

Blackness. Blue sparks on the insides of her eyelids. Incandescent heat like acid in her skin, cracking it like an over-fired ceramic, burning fissures spreading from the center of her chest, her arm, her face, her _face._ Her skin pulls tight and splinters, peels and weeps slow, sticky liquid. She has the sensation of red.

“You are badly hurt. A moment. Do not move.”

A burst of magic, cool and healing. A lessening of pain.

Aeveth unseals her eyes. Twisting light assails her, pounds into her eyeballs. She feels the beams like stakes, the points hammering through conjuctivae, gel, and gray matter, driving through to the back of her skull. Aeveth flinches hard, something splattering onto her forehead, and the movement rips her skin apart again. Her scream is bloody and shredded, sounds like shattered glass flying from her throat. Aeveth screams until there is no more air left, screams until her body collapses upon itself, screams until she is writhing breathless and shuddering on the ground. She hears the scrape of her heels on dirt.

She drags down one breath, two, gags on herself, coughs and swallows air. When she brings it up she gags again, tears squeezing out from under her eyelids. Aeveth’s entire body convulses with the strength of her dry-heave. Firm hands roll her onto her side. The touch sets off another storm of pain; her shriek is lost in a gurgling gush of vomit. Aeveth moans helplessly, cries, retches more, cries again.

Aeveth unpauses herself some time later, resumes thinking. She is still lying on the ground with no idea of how long she's been out. Copper and iron burn in her mouth, acrid and foul. The pain looms close, crushing her. Her mind blanks from it, having no other defense mechanism left.

 _Survive_ , she thinks, though it is not a thought but an instinct, a compulsion born of tenacity. Someone is moaning, the noise scratchy and intermittent. It sounds like she does when she has laryngitis. 

_Survive. Survive._

There is nothing left in her to obey, to comply. Aeveth sobs until everything goes grey and soft. When she surfaces back to consciousness she finds the pain is just shy of excruciating. She is afraid to open her eyes, so she opens her mouth instead. The corners of her lips gape and split with every word. 

"Help," she whimpers, but her throat is too damaged to work properly. No one can hear her. "Please...help..."

"Save your strength, Aeveth. There will be enough time to speak later, once you are healed."

That voice with its indecipherable accent; its mellifluous consonants; the low rolling hills of inflection. Aeveth has heard it more often in her dreams lately. She trembles, anxiety and excitement warring within her. It has been a long time since he left.

"Solas...?"

"Indeed. No, do not stir yourself. Your wounds are too fresh."

"Where...?" Aeveth croaks. "How...? What...?" 

"All excellent questions, but you are in no condition to do anything but rest." A hand presses lightly against her forehead. "Sleep, my friend."

Solas' magic touches her, seeps through her pores, drifts into her mind. It is as he is, subtle and unassuming, blurring the borders of her consciousness until it drips away. 

She sleeps.

*** *** ***

Aeveth's eyes are halfway open before she remembers not to open them. She opens them anyway, and instantly a migraine slams into her, her scalp tightening around the drill of pain in her skull. Her vision shimmers mirage-like, warping the images of leafless trees in eternal winter, a landscape in monochrome. Aeveth groans and puts a hand to her head, startles and gasps upon seeing nothing but reddened, abraded skin studded with golden-black shards, as if someone has flensed her with volcanic aurum. 

She hears the rustle of clothing. Solas appears in her field of vision.

"Your hurts were deep and numerous. It will take rest to heal your cuts. I've spent much time and magic tending to them." Solas at least is clear and sharp, the features of his face quite stark when Aeveth looks from him to his surroundings.

"Thank you Solas," Aeveth whispers.

"You are welcome," he replies. “Do not speak. Simply rest.”

She allows a few minutes before she takes a breath.

"I’m sorry, but I need to know how I got here, how you found me. How we came to meet again like this.” She sighs. “I’d imagined it would be different. More anger at the way you left. Less nakedness, less pain, and less confusion." Aeveth closes her eyes. “But I’m tired. I’ve got nothing. I’ve no space left to remain upset with you.” 

Solas makes a noise of amusement. "I suppose it is my turn to say my thanks to you, Inquisitor. As for the rest, I can provide assistance." His voice is smooth and soothing-soft, the mist of magic cool and mild when he applies it, skillful, to her wounds. "We can leave here when you’re able. It’s unpleasant being here, is it not?”

"Yes it is." Only the sibilance of the words can be heard.

"As for the nudity, the explosion which brought you here destroyed your armor and most of your underclothes. It is thanks to the armor that you survived, but there is nothing left of it."

Aeveth squints at her arm, turns it this way and that, trying to focus past the incessant shrilling of the Crossroads so she can study the shrapnel in her skin. There are dozens of fine, small pieces embedded in her flesh, and short of elfroot tea, a pair of tweezers, and a magnifying glass, there isn't much that can be done other than wait. Aeveth wonders what the rest of her body looks like, whether she is speckled all over with magical remains, whether she will need to lead an expedition of scalpels into her own flesh.

She gasps when she remembers what she was doing in the seconds before she was inexplicably sent to the Crossroads. Aeveth turns over her shaking hand, looks at her palm. 

The mark is still there, a wide pale slash bisecting her hand. It flares, and Aeveth chokes out a whimper.

"But it worked," she cries plaintively, needles in her eyes. "I felt it transfer. The ritual worked! Why did it - "

The Anchor flares again. Aeveth loses the rest of her words to a strangled wail, her fingers curling into claws. They are ringless, bereft. Pale skin, delicate and new, encircles each the base of each digit instead.

Alarm colors Solas's voice. "You tried to transfer the Anchor?"

Aeveth nods, not wanting to dissolve into tears. She has already drained the reserves of her reserves so that she does not scream herself to pieces. "It's been hurting me, acting unpredictably - Solas, you studied it!” Aeveth’s eyes light up with desperation. “For three straight days. Isn't there anything you can do? You must know something of how it works."

He freezes almost imperceptibly. "My friend, I do not think I would be much help to you."

Of course. She starts to laugh, discovers a whole wellspring of laughter queued up behind it, miles long. Aeveth laughs hysterically, the magnitude of it rocking her, laughs through the agonizing fire of skin unknitting, finds the hidden cache of laughter that the pain has stolen in the last few months. Aeveth laughs until tears stream down the sides of her face, her uncontrollable sobs exiting her gaping mouth, rending the air. She has an impressive repertoire of noises. 

Another healing spell flows over her when the tides of her tears retreat. Slender fingers close around her wrist. Solas lifts her hand and places it in his. "Did you truly try to rid yourself of the mark, Aeveth?" 

He continues when she doesn't answer. She is incapable of it. Maker, she is so _tired._ "You would give up the power voluntarily?"

Aeveth turns her head so she can see him. Her hair grinds between her skull and the makeshift pallet on which she lies. She chooses not to answer his question, counters with one of her own. "Do you remember when you asked me if the mark had changed me?"

Solas keeps his eyes on her hand, his head bowed over it. His magic is a distant wolfhowl in her veins. Her skin reacts, expunging debris. "You said you had not noticed."

"Something to that effect, yes. Well, I'm noticing now."

Solas straightens and meets her gaze, then draws in a sharp breath. His voice carries concern and rebuke. "What have you done to yourself, Aeveth? I had thought this dullness of spirit to be a consequence of being in a place inimical to what you are. What have you done?"

She grins at him, knowing she looks macabre. "It's called magebane, Solas. A tweaked formulation of my own making. The first batch I ever tried was too strong and almost killed me. It left me a mostly Tranquil drooling halfwit for three days. But it worked beautifully to hide the pain."

Displeasure on his face. "This is most unexpected from you. That you would diminish yourself in this fashion is deplorable." His eyes blaze white for half a moment.

"The Anchor has done this to me, Solas," Aeveth hisses. "The pain is unbearable. I take the magebane so that I do not fall on my knees in front of anyone with a sword and beg them to end my life." Aeveth tries to pull her hand away, but Solas grips it firmly, his mouth turned down in a dark scowl, brows furrowing over suddenly intense eyes. 

"Let go. You're hurting me."

“I am trying to do something about the mark. It is difficult with the substance in you.”

Aeveth bares her teeth, holds in her groan until the cords in her neck lift beneath her skin, talks tensely through the fresh knife-wound in her palm. “Just take it.”

A tremor runs through Solas’s fingers. “I could not even if I wanted to. Your Tranquility potion weakens the magic used on you and renders the spells less effective. The Anchor -”

“I meant the _hand, _not the mark!” Aeveth growls, her other hand tightening into a fist. She slams it into the ground, swears at the fresh onset of pain layered over more pain. "You tried to do something about it and failed. I tried to do something about it and failed. Just take the damn hand!"__

__"I will not." There's the flash of white in his eyes again. Aeveth doesn't recall having seen it before. "The world still needs the Inquisition, and thus the world still needs you. There remain many threats only you can face."_ _

__"Do you mind telling me what they are?" Aeveth laughs bitterly. "Perhaps preventative measures are in order. Then I can go home."_ _

__"If I told you, would you take action? Act decisively and pre-emptively to stop a threat before it happens? What of the cost, Inquisitor?"_ _

__Maker, it feels like her hand is molten, melting, the flesh liquefying, falling away from her bones. Aeveth's heart races; her chest heaves erratically. It hurts too much to cry. "What of the cost?” she says between breaths. “I care for my own, through whatever means necessary. But it doesn't matter, as you will not tell me what lies ahead."_ _

__"I cannot tell you what I do not know, Aeveth. Another moment. I am almost finished."_ _

__"And - " Aeveth swallows and shuts her eyes. "And what of the things you do know? How you knew where to find me. Why you left so suddenly after Corypheus was defeated. Whether or not you will give back the things you took. That was good armor."_ _

__Solas's laugh is sudden, matching the speed at which the pain disappears. Aeveth sobs out her relief. His magic fades around the quiescent mark._ _

__"It was."_ _

__"What happened to it?" Aeveth relaxes against the pallet, drained and exhausted, muscles loose and torpid, pooling onto the ground._ _

__"I had to replace it."_ _

__"You owe me, you know," she murmurs. There is peace in her hand, and sleep lies heavy on her tender, burned skin. Aeveth thinks it's the best blanket she could ask for. Even the headache of the Crossroads fades under the demand. "I could use an outfit right about now."_ _

__"I will try to find something as you rest."_ _

__"Solas?"_ _

__"Yes?"_ _

__“How badly injured was I?” She sneaks a glance at his face, is struck speechless by his expression._ _

__“If I had not found you when I did, we would not be having this conversation. I have done all I could with all the skill I have to restore you. There is more yet to do.”_ _

__Aeveth tries to reach for him, finds she cannot. She weighs too much. "Thank you. I’m so grateful. But...will you answer my other questions?"_ _

__He considers. Aeveth starts to fade before he can answer. She knows he's done it on purpose._ _

__*** *** ***_ _

__"You should come back with me." Aeveth puts her hand against her forehead and slumps, her feet coming to a halt on the path. She tries to catch her breath. Between the incessant shifting of the landscape, the whine that sets an ache in her teeth, and her poor health, the act of walking has become incredibly taxing. "Dorian is leaving for Tevinter soon. Vivienne will undoubtedly find something more important than the Inquisition. I'll have no one for company but Your Trainer."_ _

__"What of the others?" Solas asks, ambling beside her, his hands clasped behind his back._ _

__"Half of them are gone. I number you among them." She straightens, takes long strides to catch up, the hem of her ill-fitting robe swinging over her shoeless feet. No matter how quickly she walks, she always falls behind. "Save for the Anchor, Solas, I could be a free woman. That's tempting, not going back."_ _

__"The Inquisition needs its head. Without your leadership the world would easily fall into schemes and chaos. You've brokered treaties and lasting peace, provided succor to those in need. Your kindness and compassion are what define you. Would you leave them? All your people?" Solas eyes her, keeps on walking with her at his heels._ _

__Aeveth attempts to stay even with him. "I have a duty to them all. The moment they agreed to join, it meant that I would always be their guardian. As much as I would like to be free of responsibility, the truth is that I cannot remain absent." Aeveth thinks of her companions, her advisors, all the people living in and around Skyhold._ _

__They enter a grove of mirrors standing darkened and opaque among graceful, spherical trees. Aeveth thinks she recognizes the place from when Morrigan brought her through her eluvian. She digs for information one last time, knowing their parting is imminent._ _

__"You didn't tell me how you found me. That is interesting, isn't it, that all the instances involving the mark also involve you. Have you been spying on me?"_ _

__He stops in front of one of the mirrors. How he tells them apart, Aeveth doesn't know. It brightens as Solas approaches, the surface of it clearing like fog burned away by the sun. "It's rather coincidental, I agree. And no, I have not been spying on you."_ _

__"I'll take your word for it." Aeveth steps so close to the eluvian her nose almost touches it. A deep enough breath, and silvered magic would fill her lungs. "I wish I could just tell you to abandon what's compelling you to stay away from those who truly care."_ _

__"I think you did precisely that just now," says Solas, and he laughs. The sound of it is warmer than his usual._ _

__"I will miss you." Aeveth swallows. "And your wisdom. Will we meet again after this?"_ _

__“My friend, I hesitate to give my actions and my words the weight of wisdom, of prudence, or of insight.”_ _

__“You’ve missed some virtues in your list,” and Aeveth grins, a flash of teeth. “You lack humility and self-reflection.”_ _

__Solas chuckles. “I have never claimed I had those. Just my intentions, and my many, many mistakes.” He inclines his head at her. She returns the gesture._ _

__“Our paths will cross again, my friend. In perhaps a year or two, or less. You’ll have your answers from me, I guarantee it.”_ _

__"That's heartening to hear, and yet I find myself quite curious about what you've been doing all this time.” Aeveth smiles faintly. “I'm impatient. I am sorry. I have waited for two years, what's a little more?"_ _

__Solas nods. "Goodbye, Aeveth."_ _

__"Goodbye, Solas." The eluvian's magic is dewy and wet on her freshly-healed skin as she steps through._ _

__Morrigan's old room greets her on the other side. It stands empty but for thick moonbeams and a few pieces of furniture draped in sheets. Aeveth's headache clears, and with that the hurts of her body return. She has been healed, but not fully. She will need a long recovery period._ _

__She flexes her left hand. There is no pain._ _

__Aeveth walks through the room, grasps the handle to the door, and exits into the chantry garden._ _

__The air presses on her with the humidity of a mountain summer. The sky overhead is navy around each moon, black and empty everywhere else, the light of the stars indiscernible when juxtaposed against brighter celestial bodies. They hang ponderous over each side of the cloister square, one waxing, the other waning. Aeveth can’t remember what states they were in when she performed the ritual. Solas has not told her how long she has lain in the paths._ _

__She heads for the Great Hall, her steps wobbly, unsteady. She should have accepted Solas’ offer of a staff. Aeveth stops to lean on the wall every few feet, lightheaded, but determined to get to her destination. She has a task to set before the Inquisition. And then she needs to rest in her own bed. Maker forbid she pass out in front of the chantry. Those who saw her would most certainly interpret it as a sign._ _

__Her pace is glacial, and several times Aeveth almost faints. She digs her fingers into the mortar of Skyhold’s walls, cursing herself for her weakness. Each break is an opportunity for her to goad herself on. But her body has been ravaged by the multiple healings she’s received, the effect amplified by the lack of food. Solas does not eat much, if he eats at all; between sessions he had made her drink some honeyed concoction, told her she could not eat solid food in her state._ _

__One of the moons is no longer visible by the time she reaches the hall door. Aeveth heaves herself against it; it swings open bit by bit, creaking. She clutches the latch, hangs on for a second so that the world will stop spinning. She hears raised voices, a pair of them._ _

__Aeveth hobbles to the nearest empty chair and collapses into it. The two guards rush over, fall on their knees before her. She cannot even summon up her irritation at the sight of them. "Your Worship!" one of them gasps. "Maker bless us! We thought you were dead!"_ _

__She leans her head back and closes her eyes. “If there’s one thing I hope you’ve learned while serving in the Inquisition, it’s that I cheat death on a regular basis. I am very much alive." Aeveth breathes in so that she can keep talking, thinks better of it, breathes again. The blood is rushing hard enough in her body to make her float. "I am also very tired. I am going to have a seat here. One of you please get me something to eat."_ _

__“Yes, your Worship.”_ _

__“The other.” If she falls asleep in the chair, she’s done for. “Go get Leliana. We have much to discuss.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are now all set up for Trespasser!
> 
> If Aeveth's love life does not interest you, this is the place to get off the train. The rest of this goes through Trespasser and beyond.
> 
> Comments are love. <3 And I have to say that Solas' speech pattern is incredibly difficult to write. Dear lord.


	14. Chapter 14

Three of Michel's students stand before him, practice weapons drawn. It is the end of their training session, and in a rare occurrence Michel has allowed a small melee. If any of them can score a touch on him, then they all win a rest day. Michel is sure they won't. 

Michel notes the student on his right shifting his grip on his sword. The anxiety will make him less bold, he thinks, less dangerous, but more prone to unpredictability. The other two face him with wary confidence. Between the elven woman wielding daggers and the warrior with a greatsword, Michel knows he has to make this fast. The elf is quick-witted with enough good instincts to have seen her through several successful Inquisition missions; she and the warrior have worked together previously. The warrior himself has some skill and speed with his weapon.

"Does he really need a shield?" comes Varric's voice from behind him. "Maybe a handicap of some kind?"

"Are you feeling nervous, Varric?" Aeveth sounds mildly amused. "Perhaps you should have bet on Michel instead."

Michel twists around and narrows his eyes, sending his glare over his shoulder. "You bet against me, Master Tethras?"

Varric shrugs helplessly. "There are three of them, if you haven't looked."

Michel feels his mouth setting into a stern line. "You should have more confidence in your friends, dwarf."

"Oh, there he goes again," Varric says sarcastically. "Tell you what, Pretty. Double or nothing. Make me really regret what I'm doing."

"As if you would really miss ten gold coins." Dorian scoffs.

"You gonna throw in too, Sparkler?"

"I'm not that stupidly hopeless, thank you. I will share in Aeveth's winnings."

Aeveth's snort carries clear across the courtyard. "Hands off my ill-gotten gains, Dorian."

"Talk, talk. Let's see some action!" Bull slaps the fence post and chuckles. "The more you chat, the longer I have to wait to see some poetry in motion."

Michel sighs through his nose, turning flat-eyed back to the three facing him. He puts steel in his gaze, drawing himself up, broadening his shoulders, leaning forward a hair. It feels unfair using intimidation tactics in a training melee, but the numbers are not in his favor. He knows that luck and random chance are as likely to be the cause of death for a fighter as skill. Complacency is also death, or in this case, humiliation. Besides, Michel has an audience. He won’t disappoint. 

He gives himself a leisurely two minutes. 

"Face me without hesitation!" he orders his students in a perfect imitation of an Academie instructor. "Show me that your time spent in the dirt was worth something today!"

He salutes, and the warrior with the greatsword charges him. Michel backsteps, puts distance between him and the other students, then meets him in a clash of steel, taking the blow on his shield, the impact rattling all the way up his arm to his chest. In half a blink he uncoils himself into a lunge, his sword slashing across his opponent’s stomach. As his student stumbles backwards Michel comes out of his lunge, his weight transferred to his back foot; he lashes out with a kick that drives the air solidly from his student’s lungs, forcing him to crumple.

Michel sidesteps and pivots, dances back in time to avoid the twin attacks of the elven woman. She darts forward, light on her feet, striking at him right-left. The knives slice through empty air as Michel disengages a step, returning to him the advantage of reach. _The Butterfly,_ Michel thinks, anticipating the feint, knowing he will not be agile enough to get his sword past her guard. When it comes Michel goes along with it, and for a split second he sees the smugness on her face. It's wiped off when the edge of Michel's sword slashes across her arm. The backswing hits her other arm, and she falls heavily to the ground when Michel sets his feet and plows into her.

Two down in under twenty heartbeats. Michel whirls, sword and shield up in middle guard, stepping clear, seeking the last student. The clarity of battle is on him, his reality slowing a hair, focusing down into a cold rage. Michel hears footsteps behind him, anticipates through experience and instinct how his student will attack. He changes stance and spins, his sword held point down, sweeping the other man's blade away with a ringing clang. Michel locks shields with his student, flicks away the return strike effortlessly, then stabs low on his student's leg.

"Disgrace!" he shouts. His blood is up and he feels twitchy, muscles activated, ready to lose himself to the joy of fighting. "I taught you better than that! Fifty laps for each of you. Fail and you get fifty more, to be completed before sundown."

"Oh, that's harsh," Bull says, his grin evident in his words.

"I am being overly kind. I have not told them to run laps in weighted armor, nor to fight me once they have finished." Michel takes a deep breath and centers himself, then tucks his practice sword under his arm. He keeps his eyes up as he walks past his students. "Go now," he says imperiously to the air.

Dorian clucks his tongue in mock-sympathy. "Such a taskmaster you are, Michel."

He doesn’t reply, pulling off his gauntlets, his fingers finding the top tie of his gambeson, fingernails picking the knot apart. Aeveth and Bull watch his students trot out of the ring; Michel ignores them, refusing to give them attention until they do something worthwhile. The top of his gambeson loosens, the air welcome on his skin, instantly cooling his neck and the hollow of his throat. He scoops the sweat from the center of his collarbone.

“He’s been good for us.” Aeveth grips the railing before pushing herself upright. She is still unduly pale and somewhat less vibrant, but it is a vast improvement from how she looked when she first returned to Skyhold. _Like death warmed over_ , Michel thinks, watching Aeveth walk to the entrance of the ring. _Like Andraste, if she escaped the pyre._ She steadies herself on the fence posts. “We have fewer soldiers, but they’ll be better trained. If they don’t mutiny first.”

Michel opens his mouth, insulted.

“Don’t say a word, de Chevin,” she warns him. “Your commission is not high enough to be an official Academie instructor, so don’t try so hard.”

He laughs, another knot loosening, his gambeson gaping open. “Yes, your Worship. I will try the appropriate amount. Next time I will order only twenty-five laps, and use only daggers.”

“And no mention of honor.” Behind her, Dorian snickers.

“On my honor,” he replies immediately, and Aeveth rewards him with a bark of laughter, leaning once again on the fence. Michel thinks it’s a good sign that she has regained some of her sense of humor.

“Michel,” she says, stooping slowly to pick up a discarded practice sword, “have I ever mentioned how much of an ass you are?”

He refrains from helping her, knowing she will only snap at him. “It is possible the topic has come up, your Worship.”

Dorian comes bustling over, concern on his face. “Should you be doing that?” he asks, trying to take the practice sword from her. 

She glares. Michel wants to tell Aeveth to let Dorian fuss, but he holds his tongue.

“Dorian," Bull says quietly, "she isn't going to hurt herself by doing some chores."

"I think she's done quite enough." Dorian's tone makes it clear he isn't referring to the chores. Dorian had been the second to join him in the crater after the explosion, dirt covering his face, his eyes white and round and panicked as he stared at something Michel could not see. For the first time Michel had witnessed Dorian forget completely about everything, obsessed with finding his friend, refusing to leave the site for a day and a half, limping around muttering arcane phrases, his eyes lit with abiding witchfire.

"And this is how she relaxes." Bull saunters over, redirects Dorian with an arm slung over his shoulders. "I say we get something at the tavern. Meet us there, boss? Michel?"

He nods at them. Aeveth picks up another weapon, holds herself straight-backed and proud until the tavern door shuts behind Dorian, Bull, and Varric. 

Aeveth sighs then, deflating. "Shall we return these to the armory?"

They walk in silence. Michel matches her stiff, careful stride, holds the door open for her. _Your Worship_ the people inside greet her, hushed and fervent, more reverent than usual. It has been like that ever since she came out of the magic mirror.

Aeveth sets the weapons down on a table with a light clatter, looks at them wistfully.

"What is the matter?" Michel asks.

"No, nothing," Aeveth replies, leaning over the table, bracing herself on stiffened arms. "I just... was thinking how I wanted to learn how to use these. Not now, of course, it was some time ago. After watching you this afternoon, I realize it will likely never happen.” She touches the hilt of one of the swords with a thin finger, trails it down the length of the blade. “I'm no warrior. I can't even walk well right now."

"On the contrary," Michel says softly, his eyes meeting hers. In the dimness of the armory they are the rich, deep black of good earth. Michel thinks about the long list of deeds Aeveth drags behind her, her dogged determination, her indomitable spirit. Her humility over her accomplishments in turn humbles him. "You may not be a fighter, but you _are_ a warrior."

"A terrible warrior," Aeveth returns, laughing through her words. "I remember the last time I was in the ring. Four deaths to one, Michel. You don't have to be nice about it."

"It is not always about this," Michel says, putting down his practice sword, his gauntlets, his shield. He is somewhat surprised that they are having this conversation, but in retrospect he realizes that Aeveth has only ever counted the costs of her actions, and not the benefits. She does not see what she has done, only what she has not done; thinks of what could have been instead of what has happened.

Michel puts a hand to his chest, right over his heart. "It's about this. What burns in you is greater than any other warrior I have known."

Aeveth's eyes are large and wide, her lips parted. What he has said has stunned her.

"And," Michel continues, "no matter what you do to yourself, no matter the failures you heap upon your shoulders, it does not change the nature of your spirit."

He is mesmerized by her lips as they meet and press together, fold in on themselves, form a line. "You allow me this excuse," she says, her voice barely discernible over the ambient noise of the armory. "I could accept it. I could thank you for your kindness."

Michel's brows draw together on his forehead in confusion. "I was not being kind, your Worship."

"No, you weren't, but you did me a kindness just now." She turns to him, chin slightly pointed up, resolute and serene, a blade of silverite. "You do not know why the others were so upset with me during the debriefing when I told them of the magebane. Did you wonder? Did you see how each and every one of them were aghast at it?"

He nods once.

"They were frightened. Frightened at what I can do to myself, frightened that they had not noticed, angry at themselves for not noticing. A year ago I almost died because of it. I tested a formulation of it on myself. Cullen, Dorian, and Cole had to save me." Aeveth's eyes have not left his. Michel cannot look away, thinking of silverite’s famed ability to hold an edge, its equally famed ability to hold nicks. Silverite blades did not break easily, but once broken would retain its flaws stubbornly. There was nothing to be done about a sword with such blemishes except to keep at it with time and a whetstone, or reforge it completely.

"Does that change anything for you, Michel?” Aeveth asks, the intensity of her voice gentled. “I was so desperate to stop my dreams that I went to war on my own mind, my own magic. That is not the mark of bravery, or boldness, or any other positive descriptor you could come up with. It is foolishness." Her teeth clench, muscles jutting out from her jaw.

"It only saddens me, your Worship." Surrounded so by her friends, someone should have noticed. That her friends were so blind is tragic. But Michel does not pity her. "It saddens me that no one knew you well enough to see it. If I had known precisely what you were doing, I would have said something more specific that day we rode back to Skyhold. Or when you summoned me to your office to give me Knightslayer."

Aeveth's gasp is ragged, her hand rising to cover her mouth. "You knew."

Michel nods again. "I knew something was amiss."

"Aren't you angry?" She closes her eyes as if steeling herself, then opens them.

"No. What would it matter if I were?" It would serve to drive her further away, he knows. Michel can feel his face softening into concern. "Are you still taking it?"

Aeveth shakes her head. "It's tempting, though."

"I offer you my aid, whatever you may make of it." Aeveth has friends, but Michel wonders how many can truly read her. Iron Bull, maybe. Sera, though the actions she would take as a result would be incomprehensible to most.

She regards him for a moment, then sticks out her left hand, palm up. Michel hesitates for the space of a breath, then reaches for her, his hands curling around hers. He has never before noticed how slender her wrist is, how easily he can encircle the delicate bones with his fingers. The strength she projects masks her physical frailty. At this moment, stripped of her aura, she feels like fragility itself.

“Your Worship,” Michel says.

“Aeveth,” she corrects him.

“Aeveth,” Michel tries again, “I thought the Anchor no longer troubled you.”

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t like what you did,” Aeveth says, and the corners of her lips lift into a ghost of a smile. "You want to help."

“I do,” Michel says, affirming his earlier statement. He presses his thumbs into her palm, and nothing passes between them but the relief in her breath when she exhales. Michel massages her hand, lets his fingers wander up her wrist, following the line of her arm all the way up to her elbow. Her eyes drift shut under his touch.

He releases her when she begins swaying. “Is that better?”

“Yes.” Before he can react, Aeveth steps close and slips her arms around him. Michel freezes, eyes going wide, startled.

“It’s called affection, Michel,” Aeveth murmurs, her arms tightening. She lays her head against his chest, and the gesture incapacitates him. He has never been embraced like this. “I give it to my friends. You’re supposed to hug me back.”

He does so awkwardly, acutely aware of how careful he must be with her. Her skin is still peppered with fragments from the blast. With her this close he can detect a whiff of something floral. Jasmine, maybe. It's sweet and clear, a lighter fragrance than he would have expected from her.

Aeveth rises onto her tiptoes to feather a kiss over his cheek. Michel freezes again; if he was incapacitated before, he is fully disarmed now, rendered immobile with just a brush of her lips. He blinks and clears his throat as she takes a step back.

"Thank you," Aeveth says simply.

*** *** ***

"You've been taking her out." Aeveth sounds accusatory.

"Yes," Michel confirms. 

Aeveth puts her fists on her hips and narrows her eyes. "Without my knowledge. You've been with her."

"You have been in recovery, Aeveth. I did what I thought was needed."

"Every day?" Her glare is scalding. "You've been with her every day. I see the way she looks at you. She likes you!"

Michel shrugs, at a loss. "I would not attempt to ride her if she didn't."

Keeper snorts, and Michel reaches down to pat her neck.

Aeveth divides her irritation between them, but eventually settles on talking to her horse. "How did he do it, girl? Did all that flattery finally get to you? Did he bribe you with treats? Did he - " Aeveth stops to gasp dramatically. "He gave you pears, didn't you? You gave her pears!"

"And mints, when I could find them." Michel grins, then nods to Master Dennet as he passes by.

"Treachery!" Aeveth denounces them. "Betrayal! The two of you in collusion! Dishonor upon you!" She purses her lips at Keeper, then levels a finger at Michel. "Dishonor upon _you!"_

"Wait just a moment," Michel protests, still grinning. "If you are to make such a claim, then you must know I am honor-bound to defend myself, as I have done nothing wrong."

"You wooed my horse," Aeveth says, petulant.

"It would be a tragedy for a beauty such as she to be alone, your Worship." He laughs loudly when Aeveth throws her arms up in exasperation. "You have not been given permission to ride yet. I felt sorry for her."

"I appreciate it," Aeveth says, though she still sounds sulky. "You could have told me, though."

Michel dismounts, then leads Keeper towards the stable. Aeveth falls into step beside him, rubbing at her forehead. She moves more easily now; her recovery is steady, although she is still prohibited from leaving Skyhold. Despite being confined, Aeveth manages to keep herself busy. Between the daily healing sessions, her War Table meetings, and her more active role in assigning agents, they have had few opportunities to chat. Michel only sees her at the tavern in the evenings, and when she is there her attention is given wholly to Dorian, who has begun preparations for his trip home.

Almost wholly, Michel thinks. Sometimes he and Aeveth carve out some time for each other to chat, which is how he knows of her growing frustration at being caged, how the search for Solas continues to turn up nothing, how resigned she is to the fact that her laboratory has lain under a veneer of dust over the last several weeks. Michel has very pointedly reminded her of the reason why.

“To be honest, the topic does not cross my mind when we talk.” He hands Keeper’s reins over to her so he can gather his supplies. Aeveth rubs Keeper’s nose, then butterflies kisses all over her blaze. Michel catches the low murmur of her voice, private, her fingers moving over Keeper’s cheeks, under her chin, the base of her ears.

He smiles to himself as he watches the pair, then holds out a hoof pick. “And to be more honest, you are in no danger of losing her.”

“I know.” Aeveth grimaces as she bends, sliding a hand down Keeper’s foreleg. “I admit I’m somewhat jealous.”

“You will be allowed to ride soon, I am sure,” Michel says, trying to sound reassuring, though if she is in pain from this much activity the likelihood of being cleared is slim. This kind of verbal exchange is new to him, and he is not particularly good at it. Celene had hardly needed anyone’s permission to do anything, and even when she doubted she relied on him to provide her with well-argued, well-reasoned opinions, and not platitudes.

“Soon, my love,” Aeveth whispers, and though they are not directed at him, the words light a slow-sparking fuse down Michel’s spine.

They tend to Keeper together, breathing in the familiar, comforting smells of the barn. Michel sweeps a curry brush over Keeper’s coat, remembering with sadness how Cheritenne would force him to stop, leaning up against Michel hard enough to make him lose his balance, and demand a scratch or the pressure of strong, sword-calloused fingers. Now that Aeveth is present Keeper barely acknowledges him, preferring instead to bask in the glowing affection being showered upon her. It is obvious they have missed each other.

“You gave her mints,” Aeveth grouses as they leave the stable together. She grinds her palm into her forehead. “When did we have mints?”

“Last week.” 

Aeveth’s right foot drags upon the ground. She stumbles, but catches herself. Michel pauses, trying to decide if he should be alarmed, whether he should offer assistance.

“I like mints too.” She puts out a hand, then changes her mind and sits down on a haybale. They haven’t even cleared the doorway of the hayloft.

Michel keeps his face unchanging even as sympathy vibrates in his chest. She is more injured than she lets on. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time, but you will have to hurry. They disappear quickly.”

“I’m not fighting my horse to eat out of your hand,” she retorts immediately, and Michel smiles. “Maker, no - I’m not eating out of your hand at all!” Michel’s smile turns into a grin as he allows her to dig her own hole. “Maferath’s wrinkly ballsack, I give up. Any way I put it, it sounds terrible. I have a headache. That’s my excuse.”

He blinks. “Is that what ails you?”

She sighs, defeated. “Yes.”

“You should go rest.”

Another set of words cascading from her, bright and sizzling. Aeveth unleashes a mouthful of nettles, spits stingers. “No. I have had enough damned rest in the last few weeks. I have had enough of lying on my back, enough of walking the same gently graded paths, enough of finding treasure in my own skin, just _fucking enough,_ Michel, yes, I have a damned headache, and it feels like I’m in the Crossroads all over again.”

Michel is unaffected, letting her outburst wash over him. He doesn’t blame her in the least for having no patience. Words are not what she wants right now. “How can I help, Aeveth?”

“Just.” She puts a hand to her head, her fingers curling in, digging into her scalp. “Just help me back to my room, please.”

Michel holds out his hands, waits for her to grasp them. He pulls her to his feet when she does, offers his arm. He guides her along a circuitous route back to the rooms above the cloister, passing through seldomly-used hallways and passages so that people will not see her in her state. Aeveth shuffles along, hanging onto him. She weighs less than he expects.

“Tell me, Michel,” she says as she trudges up the final set of stairs. She takes them one at a time, resting with both feet upon each stair like a child. “Do you recall the conversation we had about the Crossroads?”

Michel feels dread tighten across the back of his neck, knows in the pit of his stomach that she has remembered his slip. His answer is short, cursory. “I do.”

“I didn’t get to think much when I was there,” she says, stopping on another stair. Aeveth keeps her hand splayed flat against the stones of the wall. “I was gone for five days or so, right? I spent a lot of that time asleep. But now that I’ve been here, my mind has been turning quite a few things over.” Another step. “The headache is terrible. If you focus on a point, you get vertigo. Solas seemed perfectly at home, but that is to be expected as he’s an elf. He mentioned the Crossroads was a place inimical to my kind.”

He does not miss how she uses the possessive pronoun. _My kind. Not our kind._ Michel nods politely at what she’s saying, but cannot escape the piercing knowing in her eyes. He has nothing more to protect, no identity he must maintain, and yet he still feels like fleeing.

“And then.” Aeveth allows Michel to open the door. They step outside into the brilliance of late afternoon sunshine. “I recalled wondering what it was like for the elf-blooded. You said it was the same. At the time I thought nothing of it. Now I have questions. How did you know, Michel? Neither Gaspard nor Celene are elf-blooded.”

He swallows, and his voice is hoarse when he finally speaks. “They are not, Aeveth. I am. I am the bastard son of an elven mother and a human father.”

She stops then, her hand slipping free from the crook of his elbow. She faces him, and Michel does not know whether her sadness is for him or her. “Thank you for being honest,” she says quietly. “So it is all false, then? Your title? Who you are? Do they know?”

“Yes.” Shame blooms, suns in his cheeks. “I confessed when I yielded. But that does not change what I believe in.”

“Honor, conviction, righteousness. And honesty?” 

“And honesty.” He looks her square in the eyes. “That is not part of the code.”

“No,” Aeveth sighs, “I can see why it isn’t. Have you been false with me, Michel?”

“I have not.” The words die in his throat. He tries again. “I have not, Aeveth.”

“Did you grow up in an alienage?” She looks at him, eyes searching.

He drops his gaze briefly. There is judgment withheld in her face, cornered in the strong angles of her cheekbones and jaw. “My childhood was spent in the slums of Montfort. My mother died well before I turned ten.”

Aeveth draws a long breath. “Did the chevaliers…?”

“Yes.”

There is anger in the lines of her body, her burgeoning rage flickering through the tautness of her neck, her shoulders. But Aeveth contains it. “How did you manage to leave?”

“Comte Brevin de Chalons saw me fighting three elven boys as he drove through the alienage. I was trying to protect a friend.” The recounting comes in bits and pieces, starting and stopping, memories pushed through his reluctant, sluggish mouth. “He threw down a bag of coins and told me I had a gift. He said he would nurture it if I went with him, for the good of Orlais.”

She’s quick, Michel knows, but seeing just how quick is disconcerting. “So you left your friend and went with the comte.”

Michel blinks. “He wasn’t that good of a friend.”

She flattens her lips against themselves as if holding something back. “Comte Brevin de Chalons? A cousin of Gaspard’s?”

“Yes. He passed away some time ago, but not before sponsoring my entrance to the Academie, and securing my title.”

“And you became Celene’s champion. A man of good judgment, Comte Brevin.” Aeveth tilts her head. “How could you, Michel? How could you do to others what you were the most afraid of as a child?”

Michel bows his head, closes his eyes. He hears the scuff of her boots on the walkway. When he opens his eyes he is startled to find Aeveth has closed the gap between them. He inhales suddenly, smells a hint of jasmine. “I had to protect myself.”

Her nostrils flare. “From what? Would they have killed you if you refused?”

“Yes.”

“And if they knew you were elf-blooded?”

“The same. I would have numbered the first body among the slain that night.”

“And you feel no remorse for what you’ve done?” she demands.

“What would it matter, either way?” he asks her. “I tested my blade as I was bidden. Else they would have tested their blades upon me.”

“It matters,” Aeveth growls through her teeth, vehement. “It _matters._ It matters when I take your measure, Michel. I see before me a man who holds so closely to his honor that he sacrificed an empire so as not to violate his principles. A man who has defended his comrades without flinching, with the full expectation that death is inevitable and welcome if his life is the only sacrifice. A man who but for his blood embodies what it means to be a chevalier, who has had to lock away half of himself to preserve the whole. It matters how you conduct yourself and how you perceive your actions. Can you even feel your emotions, Michel? Do you regret what you have done?”

Michel has no answer for her for a long time. “I don’t know,” he says finally.

“Kill or be killed,” Aeveth mutters, swiping her arm across her eyes, “win or die. Power the only thing that is respected. Maker, _take_ Orlais. I should have left it to tear itself apart.” Her eyes snap to his, and Michel’s breath catches in his throat at the fire in them. “This is what the Game does, isn’t it? This is what Orlais prides itself on - creating people like you?” 

He can hear the pity clear in her voice. It is unexpected, this reaction, and he does not comprehend how to respond to it. Pity, like kindness, has been scarce. 

“What kind of life have you led, Michel?”

She steps away then. Michel sees sorrow return, joining the pity. Aeveth goes to her door without looking back, and shuts it so gently the latch does not even click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are appreciated, and I always respond.


	15. Chapter 15

Aeveth looks at the tall stacks of papers tied neatly in bundles on her desk, and hopes that they are the best going-away present Dorian will ever receive.

The stack on the left is all business, documents of safe passage and protection from the farthest reaches of Orlais to the waters of Amaranthine. Anywhere the Inquisition has a foothold, Dorian and all who travel with him will be safe. The stack in the center is of an arcane nature, containing within it lists of spells developed especially for the Inquisition, including large, detailed diagrams of the magic Aeveth used for the sanctuary, and as much of Skyhold’s magic as she had figured out.

The stack on the right is full of sentimental things, and if Aeveth devotes more than a second to thinking about what's in it - [silly stories written together with Dorian](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3363131), favorite anecdotes from their friends, sketches done by Sera of the two of them - she will cry herself to pieces until she is nothing but a puffy ruin. The Inquisitor cannot show her face looking like that. There will be time enough after Dorian leaves to lie face down in a puddle of her own tears.

Aeveth summons a deep breath and rises from her chair, stretching her arms up so high they pull her onto her tiptoes. She lets her gaze wander around the room, reaping contentment from her surroundings. Her office is finally complete, and Aeveth has taken care to furnish it with plenty of books, comfortable places to sit, and as many plants as she can manage without turning the place into a jungle. Specially-made pots sit in front of the large picture windows, tall stalks of embrium and crystal grace basking happily in the sun. A wire anchored to the upper corners of the ceiling is home to several arbor blessings; Aeveth has managed to coax the sometimes finicky plant onto it. It has decided it loves its environment, and thick white blooms drip down from the edges of the ceiling, creeping down corners to where Aeveth has set low, wide plots of elfroot.

She puts her arms down, delighting in the feel of skin moving freely. Though dark spots marr and speckle her all over her torso and arms, she is finally rid of all the shrapnel, and the constant healing along with various oils and creams have almost completely eliminated the thickened burn scars on her body. Aeveth's skin is calico-patterned now, light and dark and normal tones all in disharmony, but she doesn't mind as long as she can bend and twist without any stiffness. She notes to herself sardonically that the condition of her patchwork hide does not matter; no one is seeing her anyway, and if she does find someone to scratch the itch, likely it will be dark and she will be drunk.

Very drunk, she corrects herself, thinking of Servis.

"Liren," Aeveth calls out, and the dwarven runner assigned to her pokes her head in the door. "Please have these delivered to Dorian. I need to get myself dressed appropriately for the departure ceremony."

“Yes, your Worship,” Liren says, bowing, and Aeveth does not naysay her. She has done so in the past, but since returning from the Crossroads Aeveth has not bothered to redress the fault, except in Michel’s case. Her honorific follows her like clouds, heavy and wet, words hissing down like rain, _Your Worship. Your Worship. Worship. Worship._ Aeveth tolerates it because Michel is right: she cannot stop them, and the more she tries, the more futile it is.

Aeveth leaves her office, booted feet pattering down the steps. She strides quickly through the Great Hall and up to the walkway above the cloister. Though her office is finished, her quarters are still in need of an overhaul, and until that task is completed, she remains in her room next to Michel’s.

She dresses swiftly, pulling on leggings of thin, supple gray leather, shrugging into a white riding coat with divided tails that hang to the backs of her knees. Thierry has noticed her penchant for the color, and this past season he has stuffed her wardrobe full of it. When she walks into her closet Aeveth is greeted with shades of pearl and ecru and silver, all the monochromes represented.

Her jacket is high-collared, fastening down the front with grey satin frog closures. Silver embroidery spreads weblike across her chest and shoulders; the collar, sleeves, and hemline of her dress are trimmed with dark grey suede. Over it all goes a summerweight cloak with a silver and jade clasp. The cloak is made of the finest linen and silk, the material beautifully smooth, pressed with an expert hand. It falls with the perfect amount of drape, and flutters pleasingly as she leaves her room, sweeping past Michel who flattens himself wide-eyed against the railing.

Aeveth hurries to Iron Bull’s quarters, hoping to catch Dorian before the ceremony officially begins. “Dorian!” she calls, knocking on the door. “Bull?”

“Come in!” yells Bull, his voice muffled.

“Are you decent?” Aeveth yells back.

“Never!” Dorian responds, and Aeveth bites back a laugh as she turns the latch and walks into their room.

Several rucksacks are piled together on the bed, round and lumpy with Dorian’s belongings. Dorian is elbow-deep in another one, an expression of annoyance on his face as he shoves something down.

“Dorian, I thought I would steal a minute before all the pageantry begins,” Aeveth says, and he drops what he’s doing. He faces her, and Aeveth steps into the circle of his arms, breathing him in. 

Aeveth holds onto her dearest friend, tries to think of something witty, fails utterly. “Oh, Dorian… damn it. I’ll say it before you do. I hate you so much. You’re the worst.”

A moment as Dorian’s shoulders shake with laughter. “You are so inelegant and crass,” Dorian responds, “so clumsy with words. You have no sense of humor. I can’t stand you at all.”

“I won’t miss you in the slightest, you churl,” Aeveth says, and fights the urge to cry, squeezing him harder instead.

“Likewise, you harpy.” Dorian’s arms tighten around her further.

“That’s so touching,” Bull says, going over to Dorian’s abandoned pack, taking it in his hands.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come to Tevinter?” Dorian lays his cheek against hers for a moment, then pulls away. “I know I argued against it in the past, but given everything you have experienced, the Magisterium would be positively dull in comparison. Only a few deaths, and perhaps a duel or two before you melted their faces with the Anchor. Tempting, isn’t it?”

Aeveth laughs, then wipes a tear carefully away from her eye. “It sounds marvelous, Dorian. Minus the face melting. Do they all dress like you? Can you imagine me with as many belts and buckles? Wherever would they go? Bull, no.”

“Aw, darn,” Bull grumbles. “You’re no fun, boss.”

Dorian goes over to the bed where her parcels are sitting. “A few tweaks to your wardrobe and Thierry on retainer, and you’ll fit right in.” He places a hand on one of the packages. “What are these?”

“They’re, um…” Aeveth swallows, imagines that she is filling her body with air from her hips to her shoulders. Presentable, she must be presentable. “They’re going-away presents. Some things that will keep your memories fresh when you get home. Various pictures of butts courtesy of Sera, yours and mine included. And a full diagram of the magic in the sanctuary.”

“Aeveth -” Dorian starts.

“Use it well,” she says, not letting him finish. “Make a place for yourself. I daresay you’ll need it when you’re there.” She turns to Bull. If the words can stream fast and endless from her mouth then she won’t cry. “Keep him safe, Bull. And come back to Skyhold in one piece. All of you. Horns up, got it? If you find a juicy contract while you’re out just send me word.”

“Will do, boss.” Bull stands and shoulders a rucksack, then leans back and peers out the window. “Cullen’s coming. Ceremony’s starting soon.”

Aeveth throws herself at Dorian, their bodies meeting with a thump, clothing rustling. “You look lovely, by the way,” Dorian murmurs in her ear. “It makes me glad to see you back to being yourself. I never want to be that worried again. You will live to be a hundred years or more. You must. It would be fitting.”

She kisses him on the cheek. “I will do my best,” she promises him. “Write me as often as you can. More often than you think you should. Overwhelmingly often. I know you love the sound of your own voice, and your penmanship is impeccable. In a few months’ time you should invent some sort of crisis that only I can solve, and I will come visit.”

There is a knock on the door. Bull goes to answer it, leaving Aeveth and Dorian still embracing each other. “It’s time,” she hears Cullen say from behind her.

“On three,” Aeveth whispers to Dorian, not wanting to be the first to let go.

“All right,” Dorian agrees. “One, two, three.”

“I’ll miss you,” they say in unison. Aeveth buries her forehead in Dorian’s shoulder and cries.

*** *** ***

Cullen smells the last traces of summer in the air as he leaves his tower that night, the chill fall breeze chasing off the remnants of warmth. He is restless and restive with both Dorian and Bull gone, and decides to work his fractious feet by joining the night patrol for a round. He hasn’t gone far when he finds Aeveth standing vigil over the portcullis, framed by crenellations, blocky cutouts stamped against the stunning backdrop of the Frostbacks.

She has not changed out of her riding habit, and in the dark of the night she glows, the silver and white of her clothing picking up the light of the celestial bodies wheeling above. Moonbeams sift down and settle among the strands of her hair, crowning her in a faint argent haze. It winks out as the wind blows again, sending jet black locks skirling up from her shoulderblades.

Cullen nods to the patrol and waits for them to move off, his eyes full of only her, beautiful and alone in the hours she loves best.

She is leaning against the stone, hands cupping her elbows. Cullen thinks he sees the shine of tear tracks on her cheeks. She has probably been crying ever since they returned to Skyhold. He breathes in, summoning up fortitude, letting the expansion of his ribs push away his apprehension. Aeveth had been the one to come to him the last time, telling him with no expectation of reciprocation the past she had hidden so carefully. He had known then how much it had taken from her. 

In comparison, comforting her in the absence of her friend is the least he can do.

He approaches slowly, scuffing his boots against the stones on purpose. “Aeveth.”

Her eyes flick over to him. “Cullen.”

“How long have you been standing here?” It’s a rhetorical question. Aeveth has been in the same spot ever since the last bells of the night were rung. The moon had not yet risen then.

“I don’t know,” she answers him. “Not even a day and I miss him already.”

Cullen nods. “I do as well. Have you eaten at all, Aeveth?”

“No. Though I did use the privy not long ago. I’ve retained some sense.” Aeveth turns her attention back to the mountain range beyond the long bridge. “Is this even the right direction to be looking?”

Cullen chuckles quietly. “To be honest, I’m not sure.” He pauses, the breeze stealing the air from his lips. Maker’s breath, she’s stunning. “Come away from the battlements, Aeveth.”

“What makes you think you’ll be so convincing? Michel passed through not long ago and was unsuccessful.”

“Michel doesn’t know how to make tea the way you like it. Nor does he understand that you’ll stay awake through third watch.” Cullen crosses his arms over his chest, tilts his head. His voice when he speaks is vaguely triumphant. “Advantage Rutherford.”

“Point,” Aeveth concedes. “Make it quick, then. I have a long night of brooding and self-pity to get through.”

She pushes off the stone wall; by instinct, Cullen offers her his elbow. She considers it for a moment before she curls her fingers around his arm, her touch neutral, impersonal. They stroll towards his office in silence. As they walk Cullen thinks about how refreshingly non-contentious this interaction is, how matched a pair they must look, she all in white and grey, he in complementary tones of smoke and fog. The coat of his station is made of the most expensive cotton and ramswool, sashed in silk of the deepest black. Thierry’s hand has been in all of it, naturally.

“Wait here,” he tells her once they reach his office. “I’ll fetch something from the kitchens.”

Aeveth is on the floor when he returns, having dropped down several thick coverlets and a duvet from his bedroom above. She sits barefooted on one of the blankets as if she is picnicking, another blanket a tight tartan spiral around her shoulders. Her cloak she has unclasped and laid over his chair. Every candle in the room has been lit, but Aeveth has also set brightly shining mage lights in the air. They float untethered, incandescent hovering spheres.

Cullen sets the basket of food down beside her, then carefully retrieves the teapot, ensconced in a cozy. “I feel I need to take my boots off to join you,” he says, smiling.

“By all means,” she responds, blinking at him catlike, and Cullen feels it then: desire long shackled unfolding within him.

A slender hand pokes out from the blanket surrounding her, reaches into the basket, rummages around for a mug. Cullen shakes himself, steps out of his boots as Aeveth pours, loosens his sash from around his waist, drapes it on top of her cloak.

A second hand emerges, fingers curving around the bottom of the mug; Aeveth sets it to her lips and tilts, takes an experimental sip. “Ah,” she exhales, closing her eyes. “Thank you, Cullen.”

“You’re welcome.” He sits, putting himself just out of easy arm’s reach, then draws a blanket over his shoulders. “I’m afraid there wasn’t much this time of night, but I brought what I could.”

“It’s fine. Thank you.” She takes another swallow of her tea before setting down the mug. Aeveth picks up a cloth-wrapped bundle from the basket and opens it. It is simple fare, bread and cheese and the last of the summer berries. They share the food in a companionable silence, or as companionable as it can be considering the history between them.

As they eat Cullen contemplates their situation. It has been a full season, almost, since her revelation and their split. It would have been hard enough staying away without the interference of the Anchor. Seeing her in explicit distress, knowing he was the cause of at least half of it, was almost enough to break his resolve. He would have donned the figurative shining armor to save her if he could.

Instead he’d practiced idiocy. He admits it to himself without reservation, remembering his visit to her quarters and the kiss they shared. That tangle of emotions had been eclipsed by the terror he had felt when she had disappeared. Maker, his heart had stopped, and he was sure it hadn’t restarted until the runner woke him in the dead of the night with the news. It had taken every ounce of willpower within him not to crush her to his chest and whisk her away to her quarters, away from Leliana and her crows, away from Inquisition business, away to where they could be just Cullen and Aeveth again, nothing more.

He had refrained from it because she looked as if she had been dragged from death’s door itself, ghostly and skeletal, the bones of her face angular and severe beneath barely-healed skin. Aeveth had floated in and out of consciousness as she told Leliana her tale, hadn’t even noticed him standing there until she had finished eating with a resolve that would not have been out of place at the gates of Adamant. He had half-carried her back to her temporary room; she had been so determined to stay upright that she did not register the commotion of bustling staff around her, nor whose arm she held. There was enough noise to rouse Michel de Chevin, whose shock was apparent on his face as he stood sleep-rumpled in his doorway, watching Cullen and Aeveth go by.

“She needs rest,” Cullen had said as if it weren’t obvious, and shut Aeveth’s door firmly behind him.

“You are looking well,” Cullen says to her, reaching for the teapot. “This is getting cool - Aeveth, could you…?”

Her brows shoot up with surprise before she stammers, “Y-yes, of course,” and warms the ceramic with a brush of her fingertip. She then takes a sip of her tea, eyeing him speculatively over the rim of her mug.

Cullen pours tea for himself, thinking about what he would like to say next. He still loves her, he knows, still craves her even with an ugly blanket a riot of color around her, eyes sorrow-shadowed. His reaction to her disappearance and the speculation of her death had been evidence enough. He wonders if she still feels the same.

“I can practically hear you thinking,” Aeveth says, words catching in the curve of the mug, circling it, sounding hollow as they devour themselves. “What is it, Cullen?”

He stares at her for a moment, eyes tracing the lines of her face in a way his hands cannot. It has been difficult and lonely waking without her. “I was thinking about you.”

Aeveth’s lips quirk into a half-smile. “Really? I’m right here. I’m all right, Cullen. Truly.”

“No, it isn’t that. I trust what you’re doing with regards to Solas. No, I was wondering…” He sets his mug down to hide the shaking in his hands, then draws his blanket more closely to him, armoring himself. “When the explosion occurred, and in the days afterwards...I couldn’t…”

“Neither could Dorian. Nor Sera, nor Bull, nor any of our friends. Sera is still waiting to punch me for exploding.” Aeveth blinks, her eyes large and dark. “And because I know you are working up to it, the answer is yes. I do still love you. Very much.”

Cullen’s air leaves him in a loud gust. “Are we... are we letting ourselves get in each other’s way again?”

She shivers visibly, then puts her mug down. “I don’t think so, Cullen. Not this time. You said love wasn’t enough, and…” Aeveth pauses, and the breath she takes is tremulous, rattling. “...you’re right. We tried, you and I. And we couldn’t do it.”

“You’ve gotten better,” Cullen says. “You told me about the Circle. What you did there does not in any way tarnish my image of you.”

“I did tell you,” Aeveth agrees, “but I had to admit it to Michel first before I realized the uselessness of holding it back from you.”

Michel again. Cullen scowls fiercely.

“Stop, Cullen. Michel is incredibly observant as a result of being at Celene’s side for so many years. He noticed a detail, which prompted a talk. If it helps, he judged your reaction correctly.”

It doesn’t help, not when he is almost out of his skin with want of her. His palms only know the curve of her hips, the grain of the fine hairs on her arms when they lay together. “That’s perceptive of him.”

“Yes.” Aeveth retreats into the protection of her own blanket. It’s all she has in his territory. “Cullen, enough. Your face!”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and scrubs a hand through his hair, grimacing. “I should be better than this, shouldn’t I?”

She nods slowly once, twice.

He sighs. “Maker. I should just be out with it. I know it was my doing, but as we still have feelings for each other...do you think we could perhaps...make it work, if we tried again?”

“Cullen,” she chides him, “I seem to recall you saying love isn’t enough.”

Love and lust, Cullen thinks, and ceasefires created conflict after conflict. “I did.”

“We need more than we have. More than we have built. What do we have in common, my love? If we recommit, what will take us through the years? Will we want each other’s company as our hair turns grey?” Her eyes search his.

“We have our shared experiences, and the knowledge of each other’s wounds,” Cullen replies. “Though I keep inflicting them upon you. I’m so sorry.”

He hears the thread of her sigh as she unspools it. “Apology accepted. That isn’t enough to keep us going, Cullen.”

Cullen’s heart sinks even as he thinks of drowning himself in her, of surfacing in the morning with her scent in his nose and serenity beneath his lips. He wants to sip the first breath of each day from the fine, small spaces that lay warm between them as they sleep. Maker, he wants to call her _wife_. He wants to map the swell of her belly with gentle hands, waiting for kicks and stretches. He wants to hear the pealing laughter of their children as they pile into their bed. He wants to build that house by the lake, and fill it with a life together.

But the future he has envisioned for them is not the future that is forthcoming, and for all the times he has kissed the place where a ring should be on her hand, there remains none. He has not asked her to marry him.

“No, it isn’t,” he agrees. “Though I will always wonder.” His eyes seek hers. “I confess to being affected by you still.”

Aeveth closes her eyes then, a pained expression on her face. There is wildfire hiding within her, and Cullen is so used to how her fingers spread it. "Don't touch me," Aeveth grinds out, words forced out through the spaces between her teeth. "You know how this ends if you do. And Cullen, I never took you for a fool."

Cullen watches her through the heat shimmer of their mutual desire. "Only for you," he says, and keeps his hands at his sides.

She laughs, covering her mouth with her hand, tears springing to her eyes. Maker, Cullen thinks, he doesn’t make her laugh nearly enough. He has never made her laugh as much as she deserves.

“Oh, Cullen,” Aeveth murmurs, lips moving behind her fingers, words slipping silky and soft between them. “I’m tired. I don’t want to keep repeating these mistakes. Especially as we can never escape each other. We need to set some rules.”

“No touching,” he says.

“No touching,” Aeveth repeats. “Can we talk more often like this?”

“As friends? Yes, I think so.” Cullen hunkers down into his blanket. When Aeveth leaves he will fold everything and bring it back up to the chest at the foot of the bed. He will need to deny his urge to make her blanket the layer closest to his bare skin. He has done enough damage to himself.

“Friends, then.” Aeveth picks up her mug and holds it up. Cullen does the same, kisses the rim of her cup with his.

“Friends.” He drinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feel free to leave me some love in the comments. Oh, I'm kind of sad.


	16. Chapter 16

“All right, it’s my turn. What do you call a Tevinter winemaker?”

Varric groans. “This one again? Really?”

“What?” Aeveth sticks out her lower lip in a mock-pout. “It’s funny! Better than the one about nugs.”

“Won’t know if it’s funny or not if you never get to the punchline,” Sera says, crossing her arms as best she can while perched on her horse.

“I thought you said that it was the journey and not the destination,” Aeveth responds, smiling.

“I didn’t,” Sera says shortly, “and if I did, wasn’t like that. Stretch it out yeah, but a joke’s not for it! Wham bam, get off!”

“Hey now,” Varric interjects, “comedy is all in the timing! Sometimes you just have to make people…” He trails off.

“Don’t,” Sera warns him.

“Wait for it…”

“Varric!”

“Just wait for it, Buttercup.” Varric’s laugh rumbles good-natured through his chest.

“I am still waiting for the rest of the joke,” Michel says patiently, though a smile curves his lips.

Aeveth giggles. “All right. What do you call a Tevinter winemaker?”

“Seriously, Smoky, is Pretty the only one left who hasn’t heard this joke of yours?” Varric snickers.

“For the love of the Maker, will you just let me _tell the damn joke,_ Varric?” Aeveth glares so hard she thinks Varric ought to be punched off his pony with her eyeballs.

“Fine, fine. I’m warning you, Pretty. It’s an awful joke.” A white-toothed grin blooms over Varric’s features.

“Master Tethras, if you keep Aeveth waiting any longer, she is likely to set you on fire.” Michel’s eyes are bright blue with humor.

“Now who’s making me wait?”

“Just tell it already!” Sera blurts, impatient.

The words tumble out of Aeveth’s mouth. “What do you call a Tevinter winemaker?”

Michel thinks for a moment. “I don’t know. What?”

“A Tevintner!” Aeveth declares proudly. “Get it? A Tevinter vintner?”

To her utter surprise Michel laughs whole-bodied, mouth open, curling himself over the pommel of his saddle. Aeveth watches in slack-jawed shock, just as stunned as Varric and Sera. She has seen Michel laugh quietly, has overheard him over the noise of the tavern a time or two, but she hasn’t seen him quite like this, momentarily helpless with mirth.

Michel takes a deep breath and straightens, unmindful of the three gaping faces before him, his form once again perfect. He sighs, a long and satisfied sound. “That was an excellent joke.”

“Your taste is suspect,” Varric mutters, then glances at Aeveth. “So is yours, Smoky.” He looks at Michel. “She made that one up herself.”

Sera makes a face. “Heard this a hundred times already, still not funny. No butts in it.”

Aeveth’s words are dry enough to preserve bodies. “Next time I will endeavor to work in butts. Just for you, Sera.”

“Good,” Sera says, nodding.

“Is it my turn?” Michel asks. “I believe I have one that would be suitable. I had this jest from Legionnaire Rith. I found it quite amusing.”

“Maker save us,” Varric grumbles. “Never let an Orlesian do the lead-up to a joke. All right, what is it?”

“What do you call two Legionnaires in a relationship?”

Aeveth shakes her head, stumped, then shrugs. “You got me. What?”

Michel’s sunny grin almost sparks her premature laughter with how much it lights up his face. “Necrophiliacs!” He guffaws. Maker help her, he actually guffaws.

“Oh shit - “ Varric doubles over, roaring with laughter. His pony spooks at the noise, scrambling sideways. Varric swears as he loses his balance, arms windmilling as he tries to stay astride his mount.

Aeveth clutches at Keeper’s neck at the sight, covers her face and gasps for air. It’s too funny, all of it, and between Varric’s poor horsemanship and the joke, Aeveth is almost crying. “Maker, help! Necrophiliacs!”

Sera's brow creases with her bewilderment. “Necro-what? What’s necro-feely-tits?”

Michel barks a laugh, then looks apologetic. “Sorry, Miss Sera. Necrophiliacs. People who...enjoy the carnal delights of dead bodies.”

“Ewwwww!” Sera’s voiced disgust pierces the air. Aeveth can’t help it; she falls onto Keeper’s neck again, laughing. “That’s right nasty!”

“That’s why the joke is funny, Miss Sera.” Michel’s lips twitch. Aeveth thinks he is doing a masterful job at keeping from laughing. Aeveth herself is still wracked with the giggles.

"I haven't seen Smoky laugh this much since Tiny spent the entire day making passes at Hero," Varric says, chuckling. "Good on you, Pretty."

"Thank you, Master Tethras." Michel inclines his head at both Varric and Aeveth. "I am at your service."

Aeveth wipes the tears from her eyes and sits up, glancing backwards to check the road. They are on the Imperial Highway headed to Jader; she does not expect much trouble. She takes a few moments to catch her breath. "Necrophiliacs," she mumbles, laughing to herself. "Oh, Maker. Varric, you'll have to put that in your book. Work it in somehow."

"I'll do my best, Smoky."

"Leave my nickname out of it." Aeveth narrows her eyes.

"Mine as well if you please, Varric." Michel cocks an eyebrow at the dwarf.

"Come on, Pretty, don't you want to be immortalized in print? People might think you're the opposite, anyway. Look at Chuckles and Tiny." Varric grins.

"I am not sure which is worse," Michel says, resignation settling over his features. Michel is handsome, pretty even, and Aeveth knows she is not the first nor the last to admire the sheen of golden hair, the masculine angles of his high cheekbones and firm jawline, the clarity of his crystalline eyes. Coupled with the way he carries himself - loose clothing does nothing to hide how incredibly fit he is, not that current Orlesian fashion uses loose clothing - Michel is, as an understatement, easy on the eyes.

"If I must be known, I would prefer to be infamous for deed, not for pleasantness of visage," he says, and Aeveth brings her thoughts firmly to bear upon the present conversation.

"Speaking of being infamous, as you already are, Michel," Aeveth says, "it's imperative that we are all in accord when we arrive in Jader."

“Nope,” Sera says. “Not playing.”

“You don’t have to,” Aeveth reassures her, not that she needs it. Sera will do what she wants. “For the rest of us, however - I am not in Jader on diplomatic business. I have no wish to engage in formal ceremony. I am absolutely sure I do not want to see Lady Seryl, nor do I want to be shown around Jader just so I can make delighted exclamations over how wonderful everything is.”

Varric looks at her askance. “You don’t want to play the Game?”

Aeveth glances at Michel. “Not this time.”

Varric’s laugh is one of disbelief. “You always want to play. What’s wrong?”

“It’s just an overnight to make sure you set sail safely for Kirkwall, Varric. My focus is on saying farewell to you and Sera, and not on taste-testing every petit four that comes out of the kitchens.” Truthfully, she admits to herself, after learning of Michel’s past, she has lost her taste for the Game, as well as her patience with Orlais. Aeveth is no longer willing to further those traditions which continually ruin lives. 

“There is no need to draw out the visit, especially as Michel is with us. Lady Seryl is a close ally of Celene’s.” She glances at Michel again, whose expression is neutral.

“I appreciate it, Smoky. It’s still weird, though, you not playing.”

“I wouldn’t get used to it. It wouldn’t do to lose my edge.” Aeveth smiles, tight-lipped. She can’t lose her edge, she knows. But it doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to. Maker, she’s so _tired_ , and growing exponentially more so with every friend who leaves. “The reservations are under your name, if I remember correctly. We’ll need a cover.”

“Miss Sera will be the easiest.” Michel’s voice is subdued.

“No.” 

“You will not need to do anything, Miss Sera. Accompany us, walk where we go, sit where we sit. The people will make enough inference.” Michel almost sounds convincing. Sera blows a raspberry at him.

“Bianca and I will make sure no one bothers you, Buttercup.” 

“Won’t need it. I’ll put an arrow in any rich tit who tries.” Sera scowls.

“And you’d be welcome to it,” Aeveth says. “The more difficult part will be Michel and me. Will we need masks, I wonder?” She purses her mouth, thinking. “I brought one, but it may be too distinct for our needs. What do you think, Michel?”

“We might be able to find some, but they will not be of high quality.” Michel muses out loud. “If there is a mask-maker in the marketplace our chances will be better. There may be some available for purchase, but they will likely be the same type, and will mark us as merchant class. At best, we will pass for minor nobility.”

“As long as we aren’t recognized,” Aeveth says. “Though I confess, the implication of us trailing Varric in matching masks makes me unhappy.”

“What if you were married?” Varric asks. "Then you wouldn't be servants, and you could wear matching masks."

Aeveth coughs suddenly, choking on her own saliva. She coughs again, claws down a breath, coughs some more. Out of the corner of her eye she spies Michel sitting a little too straight-backed in the saddle, wide-eyed, lightly flushed. “Pardon me, Varric?”

He laughs. “Not really married. You could pretend you were married.”

“Master Tethras, I find your suggestion inadvisable.” There are spots of color in Michel's cheeks. Aeveth wonders how he ever survived Orlais as unconsciously emotive as he is.

“Because you won’t lie, or because you don’t want to be married to me?” Aeveth challenges him.

Stilted, he says, “It is a matter of honor - “

Aeveth makes a disgusted noise that would do Cassandra proud.

“- and I would not dishonor you even by pretending to be married to me, Aeveth.”

"It has nothing to do with honor, Michel, it's just a bit of subterfuge." She scowls at him.

"I am not trained in those arts."

"Maker's balls! There is no art. You don't need training. Just stand there and look somewhat annoyed at everything I do. Not much different from what you already do."

"I do not look somewhat annoyed, Aeveth," Michel says, looking somewhat annoyed.

"Fine, mildly exasperated, is that better?"

"That is somewhat more accurate - "

"Somewhat more accurate?!" Aeveth huffs.

"However it matters little, as we are not married."

"Pretending to be married!" Aeveth throws her hands up.

Varric and Sera's howls of laughter interrupt them. "Are you sure about that pretending part?" Varric asks, shaking his head, eyes crinkling with amusement. "You two are doing a great job of persuading me."

"Shut up, Varric," Aeveth says crossly. “Forget the masks. We’ll make do without them. My face is not so widely known, I hope. And Michel should have been wearing his mask while in service to Celene. Few will know his face.”

“Let us hope,” he says.

“Well, that solves it, then. As long as you do not talk, Michel. The second you open your mouth, they will know you are no servant. A maskless Orlesian noble in Jader is sure to send tongues wagging.” Though technically Michel isn’t a noble at all, she thinks.

“I am not unfamiliar with other forms of language,” Michel says. “I can speak more informally, if that is required.”

“More informally,” Sera mimics him, sniggering. “I’d like to see that! Knocked down a few pegs.”

Michel levels a flat stare at Sera. “I know how to talk differently,” he says, inflection changing, “and I can talk more like you if I’ve got to.”

“Well, Andraste’s face on my crotch. I almost believed you. Where’d you learn how to talk like that, Pretty?” Varric studies Michel with renewed interest.

“I have not always lived in the palace, Master Tethras,” Michel says stiffly, looking straight ahead. 

“So you picked that up on the streets of Val Chevin?”

Aeveth is sure she is the only one who notices the hitch of breath in Michel’s throat, the little flinch at the corner of his eye.

“No. Montfort. My parents died when I was but a child. I was fostered by a comte until he could sponsor me for the Academie.”

Varric hums. “You get more and more interesting the longer I know you, Pretty. Wonder what _your_ big secret is.”

“Varric,” Aeveth says, tone rising.

“I know, I know. Stay on task. Pretty isn’t bad at the commoner talk, but it’s probably best if he didn’t say much at all.” Varric nods sagely.

“I can manage that,” Michel says.

“You say that now,” and a sudden grin spreads wide and bright across Varric’s face. “But you haven’t met the Rivaini.”

Aeveth giggles. “Varric, I don’t think Isabela’s talents are the conversational type.”

“I happen to think she’s an excellent conversationalist.” Varric’s grin remains.

“Oh yes,” Aeveth agrees, “she is skilled at the back and forth. She has such a clever mouth, and delightful hands.”

“Hands?” Sera asks, puzzled. “What’s that got to do with chitchat?”

“Some people talk with their hands,” Aeveth says mildly to the sound of Varric’s loud laughter. “What do you say, Varric? I’m putting ten gold on Michel.”

“That’s unfair, Smoky. No deal.”

“I’m right here,” Michel says, voice strained.

Aeveth purses her lips, gives Varric a devilish look. “Twenty, and a side pot for Sera.”

“Hey!” Sera protests.

Varric laughs, the sound so deep and broad that it resonates in her chest. “Fine. Don't let me down, Pretty. You ready to lose, Inquisitor?”

“Oh Varric, I don’t think anyone is truly going to lose, don’t you?”

A low chuckle against the backdrop of Michel's deep, deep frown. “Nope.”

*** *** ***

“I think you should tell Sera,” Aeveth says to Michel under her breath as they work side by side in the stables of the high-class inn Varric has chosen, ignoring the scandalized whispers of the servants. “She will probably be angry, but if you value a friendship with her, she should know. Even if she doesn't speak to you ever again."

Michel whistles softly to Varric’s pony, placing a hand on the pony’s nose, leaning close. The pony snuffles and lowers his head, keeps his head down as Michel shifts away and asks for a hoof. He speaks as he works. “You’re right.”

“That’s it?” Aeveth asks doubtfully. “Are you actually going to do it? You don’t have much time to tell her, if you even get the chance tonight.” Aeveth runs her palm down Keeper’s blaze.

“I will do it. You have my word.” The sound of bristles brushing away dirt fills the silence.

“Michel.” Aeveth touches him briefly on the shoulder. “Don’t do it because you promised me. Do it because Sera is worth having as a friend, and you could use more friends.”

He nods. “What of you?”

“What of me?”

Michel sets the pony’s hoof down and turns to look at her, a hand stroking the pony’s nose. "What of you and me?"

Aeveth sets down her brush. "I am not angry at you for concealing what you thought of as shame," she says. "Though I don't see it as shameful. I am angry at circumstances that forced your hand." Angry is not the proper term, Aeveth knows. Infuriated. Enraged. She is incensed at the misery of Michel's childhood, at the longevity of the informal initiation, irate that Michel's choices were to participate or die.

She takes a cleansing breath, wrestles her anger back into the tight, cramped space she reserves for it.

"Then we are...all right?" The worry in his eyes goes straight to her heart.

"We are." Her hand finds his shoulder again. The leather of his riding jacket warms beneath her skin. "You have more than proven your worth in the field. You have been a good friend. You've tolerated my unkindnesses."

"They were not undeserved." Michel stands, Aeveth's hand falling from his shoulder.

She maintains eye contact, her chin lifting. "They were still unkind. I'm sorry. We've been through enough, you and I. You've protected me more times than I can count. I won't hold you blameless, but knowing the full story mitigates things somewhat."

Michel's voice drops into a gentility she has never yet heard, and when he speaks, something flutters in her chest. "I set Knightslayer on a stand on my dresser," he murmurs. "The enchantment upon it makes it glow at night. I have not forgotten what you said to me."

Aeveth smiles. "The stoic warrior has feelings?"

He returns her smile, the simplicity of it warm and sweet. "Perhaps a few."

"I'm glad." Keeper bumps her with her head, and Aeveth scratches the base of her ear idly before turning back to her work. There are a few more horses yet to tend to, and while there are plenty of servants around, Aeveth wants to enjoy the comfort and companionship of Michel's presence.

Aeveth places a kiss on Keeper's nose when all the horses are in their stalls, leaves the stables after washing her hands and knocking off barn detritus from her riding boots. "I'm looking forward to dinner," she says to Michel as they walk down the street towards the main building of the inn. The inn Varric has selected is the most expensive establishment in the mid-sized port city, rising impressive and grand above the rest of Jader’s skyline, multiple stories lit with chandeliers and candelabras. It bustles with activity, valets and pages scurrying in and out of the main doors.

As they approach she hears a commotion, then the telltale crack of a slap. The banked anger from earlier kindles back to life in her chest when she sees a man standing over a cowering servant. He is attired richly, his enamel mask chased in gold. "Stupid knife-eared whore!" he snarls in front of the onlookers.

She feels Michel tense beside her. "If you'll pardon me, Aeveth," he says, his voice sounding detached. "I apologize for drawing attention to us."

Michel is tall, and even walking as calmly as he is doing, his long strides eat up the ground. His expression of cold disdain does not change as his ungloved fist smashes into the nobleman's masked face, sending him sprawling. Aeveth gasps despite herself, then quickly seizes her composure, her mind already racing.

"Are you hurt, miss?" Michel asks the elven woman, bending down to take a better look at her face.

"No, my lord," the elf replies shakily.

"How dare - " the nobleman grinds out, getting to his feet, reaching for his sword.

Michel's sword shivers from its sheath in the space of half a breath, firelight glinting along the silverite length as the edge is placed precisely against the nobleman's throat. The man freezes, his own sword only partway out of its scabbard. 

"I believe the insult was done to the lady, my lord," Michel growls, and Aeveth knows his temper has caught fire. “I have returned it to you in kind.”

"The knife-ear?" The nobleman spits. Aeveth reaches Michel's side in time to catch his fist in her hands.

"What kind of behavior is this?" she demands, imperious. "Are these the courtesies to be expected of Orlesians? I had thought this glorious nation to be more civilized."

Michel's eyes flick back to the nobleman, blazing with ire. He pulls his sword away and lets the tip drop. "My lady, with his barbarism he does injustice to Orlais, and to all true Orlesians who have witnessed his act."

"You defend the knife-ear?" The nobleman laughs openly, and Aeveth counts it a blessing that Michel does not just cut the man's throat then and there.

"What possible insult could a servant do to warrant such action?" Aeveth asks before Michel can act, pointedly leaving off _my lord._ "Come now, what was it? It must have been a trifle."

"She did not show enough respect." The man stands superciliously, eyes narrowed at her.

Aeveth laughs derisively, supporting the sound with the strength of her diaphragm until it rings clearly over the noise of the streets. "By that measure I should have your head off your shoulders for the same. Especially if your face has damaged my friend's hand. I will count any blemish as the most grievous insult, to be repaid with blood." Aeveth's fingers slip around Michel's wrist, and as he softens his grip on his sword she makes a show of inspecting his hand.

"Who do you think you are?" the nobleman growls.

Michel spares him an irritated glance before returning his attention to Aeveth. "She is someone far above your station, my lord."

"Andraste be praised, you are unharmed." Aeveth releases Michel. Her gaze snaps to the nobleman, pinning him down. She finds the space in her vertebrae, elongates her spine, assumes the gravitas she wears when people are brought before her for judgment. "Respect is earned, not demanded. Perhaps that was a lecture you failed to attend while at the university." A pause. Aeveth surveys the nobleman, eyes traveling up and down critically. "If you even attended."

A murmur rises from the crowd that has gathered, along with applause. Aeveth turns her back on the nobleman and goes to the elven woman. "Come with me," she says to her quietly, and guides her towards the inn's doors.

"If you have any honor left within you," Michel declares, "you will sheathe your sword and quit this place." 

Aeveth continues walking and does not look back, knowing Michel can handle himself in the crowd. The common room of the inn is lit like the day, bunches of candles burning in elegantly curved candelabras which match the chandeliers descending from the ceiling, wrought iron shaped into branches and leaves. She receives a few puzzled looks as she maneuvers the elven servant towards the back, where Varric has most likely booked a private room for their party.

“Smoky!” Varric laughs as she passes under the double archway of the entrance. “I should have known you’d get into trouble. Who’s this?”

“She comes bearing gifts,” says Isabela, a mischievous glint in her eye, not moving from where she’s sitting, feet propped up on the table. “Aeveth, you didn’t have to!”

“Rivaini!” Varric scolds her.

“What?” Isabela shrugs and tips her tankard back.

“Where’s Sera?” Aeveth asks, pulling out a chair for the elven woman. “Go ahead, sit if you would like.”

“I can’t, my lady,” the woman says, and Aeveth notes the humiliation and anger in her large eyes. “I have duties.”

“If you mean with the villain who struck you, then I am offering you a job with me, starting immediately.” Aeveth’s nostrils flare.

“Villain?” Varric’s face lights up. “I sense a story. Not even half a day in Orlais and you’re already making waves, Smoky. Where’s Pretty?”

“Here,” Michel says, striding into the room, eyes still lit with the intensity of unquenched steel. He casts a look at the elven woman before dragging a chair out and throwing himself into it. Aeveth can feel his fury in the prickle of the hairs on her arm.

“Michel, he’s not…?”

“No,” Michel replies, “though I was sorely tempted.” He sits up properly then, resumes being the courtly chevalier.

"What happened out there?" Varric slides a tankard of ale towards Michel, who accepts it but does not drink. "Are we conscripting someone new?"

Aeveth looks at the woman, takes in the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the shadowed exhaustion on her face, the tensed muscles of her jaw. She is in her late thirties, she thinks, and judging by her reactions is familiar with the oafishness of her master. "Only if she wants," Aeveth says. "She is free to choose. Michel and I were walking back from the stables when we heard the fuss." She inclines her head at the woman. "Go on, you tell the rest."

"My master struck me," she says, keeping her eyes on the ground. "Then my lord and lady defended me. There isn't much more to tell."

"You should have seen it, Varric," Aeveth says, excitement coloring her voice. "Michel played it perfectly. Cassandra would have been proud of his form. He punched the other man hard enough to knock him on his rear in front of all the people on the sidewalk. And then he ignores him and asks our friend here if she's alright!"

"Getting your hands dirty, ser?" Isabela asks, coquettish and teasing, and though she is semi-reclined in her chair, somehow she looks alluring, the dark waves of her hair tumbling over one nut-brown shoulder, the ends coming to rest in a decolletage Aeveth thinks she will never see rivaled. "I thought you types were all about using the big swords."

"His life was worth less than my blade," Michel says flatly, and takes a swallow of his ale. "My fist was good enough."

"Just think," Varric says, amused. "Almost a year ago you would have challenged him to a duel. Now you're throwing haymakers without warning. You're making progress, Pretty."

Michel narrows an eye at Varric, but doesn't speak until he takes another pull of ale. "The situation warranted it. There is no honor in striking those who cannot defend themselves."

"Pretty, I'm ready to slow clap this out. I'm proud of you."

"Gorgeous _and_ valiant." Isabela practically purrs as she sits up, her feet thumping to the floor, and studies Michel. "And single?"

Michel freezes as Isabela sizes him up with all the self-satisfaction of a cat in cream. "Oh yes," she breathes, biting her lip slowly, tilting forward, a smirk spreading over her face. "How much do you have riding on me, Varric?"

Varric's gales of laughter fill the room to the rafters, cracking out like thunder. Aeveth's nose crinkles as she stifles her own laughter with her hand.

"It's not me! Smoky here says twenty gold will catch you a - what was it, a callipygian cuirassier?"

Aeveth is the one who guffaws then, remembering the red of Michel's face that day in the stables. His face begins to turn pink.

"Was that _you_ in the Randy Dowager?" Isabela's eyes sparkle as they devour Michel. Despite the color in his face, he seems to be enjoying the attention, at least a little. "Three scarves fluttered out of _five_ , sweet thing. Varric, you took the wager?"

"What can I say?" Varric shrugs, chagrined. "I root for the underdogs."

Aeveth leans back in her chair and sighs. She then turns to the elven woman, who is still standing with her gaze locked on the timbers of the floor. “What is your name?” she asks. “My offer of employment stands. Will you consider coming with us?”

The woman lifts her eyes, and Aeveth almost flinches back at the open hatred in them when she looks at Michel. “Is he a chevalier?”

Michel answers. “I was. No longer.”

Her hostility rolls off her in waves, palpable. “Then no, my lady.”

Aeveth’s eyebrows climb halfway up her forehead. “On account of Michel? He stepped in on your behalf.”

The elven woman’s words fall bitter from her lips. “Will he be there the next time, my lady? Should I thank the _shemlen_ after what he has done? Will he fight every person who strikes me or my kin?” She stares at Michel, malice warping her fine features.

Michel sits stony-faced under the assault. 

Varric’s tone is kindly. “She’s offering to do you a huge favor. You should take her up on the offer.”

“I have a daughter,” she says, her fingers clutching her skirts angrily. “I won’t leave her.”

“She is welcome as well,” Aeveth says, keeping her tone pleasant. “But if you believe you are better off in your current situation, then I will not dissuade you.” Aeveth tilts her head lightly to the side, finds the elven woman’s eyes with her own. Her voice softens. “Please do consider. The Inquisition would benefit from your skills. If at any time you change your mind, our nearest outpost is - “

“No,” the woman says, and if she is impressed, she doesn’t show it. Aeveth blinks, taken aback. 

Her question is straightforward. “Why?”

The elven woman responds with an equally straightforward question. “Could you take in all of us, my lady?”

Aeveth feels the lapsed silence heavy on her skin as struggles to grasp the elf’s meaning. “I understand,” she says finally. “You are free to go.”

The woman ducks her head before she leaves, and Aeveth counts it a victory that she even does that much. Aeveth watches the woman go, frowning.

“Well!” Isabela says brightly. “How about a game of strip Wicked Grace? Marcher rules? Just like old times, right Varric? Except the patrons here are worth stealing from.”

“Ah, Rivaini,” Varric says fondly, “I figured if I was going to hang out in that shithole again, I might as well preface it with something that isn’t a shithole.”

“I’ll drink to that!” Isabela says. “And full pockets. Unless I have a distraction.” She grins lewdly at Michel. “Won’t you please protect the citizens and keep my hands busy?”

“Captain,” Michel starts, but Isabela doesn’t let him finish.

“Captain!” she exclaims, clapping her hands. “He’s respectful too! I like the sound of that.”

“Only because you’re thinking of him serving under you,” Aeveth jokes.

“He’s been serving under you all this time and you haven’t made use of him,” Isabela fires back. “It’s my turn.”

“Your turn for what?” Sera asks, walking in. “Sorry about that, had to take care of some business.”

Aeveth meets Isabela’s eyes. “Nothing. We were about to start a round of Wicked Grace. I can’t think of a better way to spend our last night.” She smiles at Varric. “Do you have the cards?”

“Do I have the cards,” Varric mutters, shaking his head. “Smoky, I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer.”

Aeveth laughs lightly, and turns her chair so that she can play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this got so huge - hopefully I won't drop another one like this. As always, comments are wonderful and highly appreciated.


	17. Chapter 17

Aeveth stands at the pier and watches Isabela’s ship sail away across the graying sea, the creaking of the sails fading over the water, the sounds scattering, swallowed by greedy tides. She waves and waves, her eyes firmly fixed upon Sera clinging precariously to the bow of the ship. Varric lifts a hand occasionally as he holds onto Sera’s shirt.

She waves and waves, unmindful of the hot streaks of tears down her cheeks, waves until Sera is just a dancing speck on a blur of a boat. Aeveth keeps waving anyway because she refuses to lose to her friend. Some things are more important than others, and Aeveth knows that waving her arms until her muscles burn is one of them. Sera wouldn’t do any less.

“Aeveth,” Michel says quietly, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Ow,” Aeveth whimpers, flinching. “Wrong shoulder, Michel.” She glares up at him through her tears. Knowing which of her shoulders is the bruised one is a detail he normally would have remembered. Isabela has tired him out more than he lets on, she concludes.

“My apologies. How many times did she hit you?” 

“Rubbing it in now, are you?” Aeveth makes a face. “How many times would you say sadness and worry and anger warrant? That many.”

He smiles, conceding her point. “She will return.”

Aeveth scrapes the tears from her cheeks with the blade of her hand. “She had better. At least Varric didn’t hit me.”

They turn from the pier to untie their horses from the post. Michel glances around, leather traces slapping against themselves as he pulls the knots. “He did make you bid farewell to Bianca, however.”

“Nobody’s perfect, Michel.” Aeveth sniffles, then sniffles again, dabs at her nose with her sleeve. Michel’s lip curls slightly upon seeing her. “I didn’t bring a handkerchief, all right?”

He opens a saddlebag and draws out a square of soft cloth, then hands it over. “An oversight. This will have to do.” Michel looks away politely as she blows her nose.

“Is this your polishing cloth?” She inspects it closely; Michel’s eye twitches.

“Not anymore.” A smile tugs at the corner of Michel’s mouth as he mounts up. He cranes his head up to see the position of the sun in the sky once he’s in the saddle. “We should be going. Lady Seryl will have agents seeking us.”

“Undoubtedly, after last night’s show.” Aeveth swings into the saddle, clicks and kisses Keeper into a loping trot. Other than a brief stop to purchase a bag of gougères and a few hand pies, they pass through the city gates without incident, and in short order are traveling due south.

"I am sorry about the elven woman," Aeveth says when she notices the heaviness of Michel's silence. "It was naive of me to think the situation would be so simple."

He shakes his head. "Do not be. I have little concern for her. Her master did not strike her hard enough to draw blood, and he has struck her before. She will continue to serve him."

Aeveth's face hardens. "Then why...?"

His eyes flick towards her. "She reminded me of my mother. She worked in a tavern when I was a child."

"Oh." She thinks about what she can possibly say to that. She herself has no particular attachment to her family save for Taka. "Do you miss her?"

"No," Michel says, and that is the end of the conversation.

They trot down the road leading back to the Imperial Highway, letting the horses stretch their legs from time to time. The silence eases back down into companionable as the sun traverses the sky; Aeveth is relieved at the return of it. She opens the flap of her saddlebag and retrieves the bag of pastries when the horses slow to a walk.

“You were generous with the baker,” Michel says, and Aeveth pauses with a gougère halfway to her mouth, her question evident in the curve of her eyebrow. “You could have given him half of what you did, and he would have been happy.”

Aeveth shrugs and takes a bite, finishes swallowing before she replies. “Someone else is benefiting from last night’s winnings. I was glad to let him have it.” She pops the rest of the pastry into her mouth, then grins at Michel. “Speaking of, in all your time in Skyhold I have not heard talk of your dalliances. Either you have been celibate, or you have been extremely discreet.”

Michel lifts one golden eyebrow in a manner which suggests Aeveth is being vulgar. “Either way suits me, your Worship. I have little interest in being sport for wagging tongues.”

“You are using my honorific, which indicates you are uncomfortable or distancing yourself from something.” Aeveth grins at him, then fishes another gougère from the bag. “We’re friends aren’t we, Michel? I had thought Orlesians weren’t prudish.”

“We are not,” Michel replies, “but some of us are private.”

Aeveth takes a victorious chomp of the gougère, then flashes Michel a toothy grin. “Discreet, then. Well done. I find myself curious as to who.”

Michel sighs as if resigned, then holds out his hand for the bag. Aeveth gives it over, then devours the rest of her gougère. 

“It matters little. I have no lasting attachment to them.”

“Them!” Aeveth exclaims. “So cold, Michel, to leave a trail of lovers behind you.”

“I could say the same of yourself, your Worship.” Michel casts her a meaningful look.

“There is no trail,” Aeveth says, her voice softening as she thinks of Cullen, and deliberately does not think of Servis.

“How remarkable,” Michel intones, dry and deadpan. “There is none here either.”

Aeveth laughs quietly, relinquishing the point, then leans back, staring straight up into the sky. She inhales the freshness of the autumn morning air, the chill of it tingling in her chest. It will be days before she and Michel encounter any semblance of civilization aside from villages and hamlets, days before they pass Haven and turn for Skyhold. Her exhale is long and slow, blown between her two front teeth. This is as close to freedom as she will get. She is going to relish it.

“There is at least one I know about,” Aeveth says, picking up the thread of the conversation. “Otherwise I would be twenty gold poorer right now. You’ve been a little off this morning, Michel. She must live up to her reputation if she could so affect you.”

Michel’s expression is unreadable when he looks at her. His eyes linger on her so long that she grows uncomfortable, clearing her throat with a loose fist held to her lips, breaking the eye contact.

“Maker,” she says faintly. “I didn’t realize it would be such a sensitive subject. I’m sorry.”

“We talked,” Michel says, voice soft.

“I’m sure you did,” she mutters in reply.

“I was not being facetious.”

“You went upstairs with her and all you did was talk?” Aeveth gives him a skeptical look. “Unless - oh Maker, Michel. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. But why go up with her if you are uninterested in women?”

Michel blinks hard, confounded. “I am not...uninterested in women, your Worship.”

Now she is truly baffled. “Then why go upstairs with her? Isabela was plenty happy this morning as well.”

It is Michel who looks uncomfortable at this moment, pressed for detail. He speaks haltingly. “We enjoyed ourselves. And we also spoke. You won a purse full of Varric’s gold. What more would you have?”

“Something about this doesn’t make sense, and if there is one thing you should know about me, it’s that I love puzzles.” Aeveth glances at him sidelong, tucks her hair behind her ear.

“Of course,” Michel sighs, fatalistic. “Naturally.”

“You said you spoke, but you enjoyed yourselves.” Aeveth taps a finger against her lips. “Isabela left satisfied, so something happened. But you could not bring yourself to go all the way. Am I right?” She turns her eyes on him, hears how his breath turns scratchy in his throat, his eyes widening in what looks like panic. It cannot be panic, however; there is no reason for it. 

She continues. “Who is it you have feelings for, Michel?”

Just like that, he closes himself off. His eyes harden, their cornflower depths growing flinty. "I would rather not say, Aeveth."

Mild alarm at how quickly the tenor of the conversation has turned. "Michel?"

"The matter is not subject to discussion." His tone is neutral, bordering on chilly.

"Oh." Aeveth swallows, then bites her lip, feeling awkward. Eventually she speaks. "She must be very special for you to care for her."

The bag of gougères crinkles; Michel reaches in, finds one, and takes his time eating it before he responds. His demeanor warms considerably after a moment. "She is."

"Well," Aeveth says, tipping her head in his direction, "I don't have to know who she is to ask you about her. Would you tell me about her? What is she like?"

He contemplates her question as he eats another pastry. "She reminds me somewhat of you, your Worship."

"Really?" Aeveth grins at him, enthusiastically curious. "In what way?"

Michel blushes under her gaze, and Aeveth has to clap a hand to her mouth to keep from giggling. It's incredibly endearing to see a warrior as stoic and imposing as he affected so. _Maker_ , she thinks, _it's adorable. He's adorable._

"I see," she says, teasing. "We're so similar you have nothing to say."

The color only heightens in his cheeks at her quip. "I was simply thinking of what to describe first." He clears his throat then. "She is strong."

"Strong?" Aeveth repeats. "That could be anyone." _Briony,_ she thinks. _Michel trains with Briony several times a week, when she is not on assignment. He speaks well of her abilities, which is high praise._

“Yes,” Michel concurs pointedly. “It could be anyone.” His stare is loaded with meaning.

Aeveth sighs dramatically. “All right. I will stop prying, and just listen. She is strong.”

“Yes. Determined as well.”

“Michel,” Aeveth says, vexed, “your taciturnity does you no favors right now.”

The man has the audacity to glare at her. Aeveth scowls, affronted, her jaw jutting out. “I thought we were just talking last night about how you have feelings. This is a new side of you, and I happen to think it’s charming but for the sourpuss on your face. I confess I am deathly curious as to who is the recipient of your affections, but since I have already unwisely said I don’t need to know who, at least indulge me with some gushing language. _Gushing,_ Michel. Don’t hold back. This is exciting! Give in, Michel. You can be…”

Aeveth leans over as far as she can without falling off Keeper, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “...twitterpated.”

Michel laughs abruptly, so suddenly his horse shies and sidesteps. Michel calms the gelding with a gentle word and a firm touch, then laughs some more. It’s a moment before he can regain his typical demeanor.

“Aeveth.” He is serious, _serious._

“Yes?”

Michel leans over this time. Aeveth mirrors him, wondering if he has been persuaded to tell her whom he’s infatuated with. She is fairly certain Michel won’t say, but she is burning to know.

“I…” he begins. “...do not twitterpate.”

Aeveth grabs onto Keeper’s mane and holds on, throwing her head back, her laughter pealing into the clear blue sky. “Maker, Michel!” she giggles, and it’s to her immense satisfaction when she sees the fond smile on his face, the light in his eyes. “At least try?”

He fumes out a sigh. “Very well. She is...complicated.”

Aeveth snorts. “Who isn’t?”

He glares at her again. “You wanted me to gush, your Worship.”

“My apologies. Do go on.” She grins cheekily.

“She is also difficult and infuriating. But none who have opposed her and borne the punishing force of her will would ever doubt she is a warrior.” Michel looks at her then, and the openness of his emotions in the depths of his eyes takes her breath away. 

“She challenges me,” he says softly, and Aeveth feels his every word fly home and roost in her throat, wings fluttering into her pulse. “She makes me want to be a better man. When I am with her, I think I can do that.”

Both horses have stopped. Aeveth sits frozen in the saddle, her world dwindling down to blue eyes filled with hope, a dear face soft and sweet with sincerity. _He’s in love,_ she thinks, and something twists in her chest, a sharp twinge of emotion she cannot place. _Maker help me, Michel de Chevin is in love._

_Briony, it has to be Briony._

“Is that enough gushing?” Michel asks, and if Aeveth didn’t know better, she would say he sounds tender, disarmingly so. The touch of his eyes is a caress, like a thumb hovering over her lips, like a lover’s quiet, reverent gasp. “Or shall I continue?”

She fumbles for words, finds only the beginnings of them. “That’s good,” she manages lamely after a moment. It figures she would only find the single-syllable ones. He smirks at her and says nothing.

Aeveth clicks to Keeper to get her moving again. “Does she know how you feel, Michel?”

“Evidently not,” he replies immediately, urging his mount forward.

“Why don’t you say something?”

Michel gives her a look of frank disbelief. “You must be joking. I have tried.”

“Why would I joke about something like that?” Aeveth gestures towards the bag of pastries, and Michel passes them to her. “It’s so wonderful hearing you express your sentiments. It’s a shame you haven’t told her. If you said to her what you just said to me…”

She watches the emotions chase themselves across Michel’s face: incredulity, suspicion, back to incredulity. Finally he says, “I do not think she reciprocates the feelings.”

“Oh!” Aeveth exclaims. “Whyever not? Don’t you work with her often enough? Maybe there’s something and you just don’t realize.”

“No,” Michel demurs. “At this point, she does not reciprocate them. She has…recent history.”

Aeveth winces. She is all too familiar with recent history; after Cullen, it will take a miracle for anyone to be interested in her. 

“Then it's likely she is unable to comprehend that you have feelings. You are subtle in your mannerisms." Aeveth purses her lips as she thinks. "That settles it. You will just have to woo her. It shouldn't be difficult, given how you have won over my horse."

“Maker’s balls.” Michel looks harried. “And how would I do that, your Worship?”

She smiles, her cheer returning. “Find out what she likes. Surely you know. Flowers, perhaps?”

“For a certainty.”

“Then we’ll start there!” Aeveth peers around. “I don’t see many wildflowers here, but the closer we get to the mountains there should be some better varieties. Let’s go!” Galvanized, Aeveth puts her heels to Keeper’s flanks until she rolls into a lazy canter.

The day passes pleasantly, and by the end of it she and Michel have made good progress, setting up camp on the shores of a mid-sized lake due south of the Imperial Highway. Michel pitches the tent while Aeveth walks the perimeter, hands held out palm-down, muttering calculations to herself, magic trailing foggy behind her.

She turns to him when the wards are set, happy that the Anchor has not reacted to her spellcasting. Aeveth has been blessedly free of pain. “Don’t bother with the second tent, Michel,” she says, and he pauses, hands stilling on the large pack at the back of her saddle. “We’ll be alternating watches. I’ll take the first. Just leave my bedroll in the tent, and I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

“Your Worship?” Michel asks, unsure.

“No, you cannot take first watch. That means third watch would be yours as well. You know how I feel about that.” She smiles at him and lays her hands atop his, removing them gently from her pack.

“I do,” he replies, and does not let go of her when their arms drop. “How does your shoulder feel?”

Aeveth rolls it experimentally, makes a face when it complains. She is stiff everywhere after a full day’s ride, but especially so in her Sera-bruised shoulder. “Might I prevail upon you, Michel?”

“Yes, your Worship,” he says smoothly, understanding exactly what she means. He lets go of her hands. Aeveth misses his warmth now that the evening’s chill is fully upon them. “I will tend to the horses first, however.”

He folds himself into a sit beside her when he is done. Aeveth offers him one of the pies, and nothing is said as they both eat, craning their necks back to view the sweep of stars speckling the night sky. The serenity of the limitless heavens accumulates in her little by little as she watches, easing the frayed ends of her fatigue, blunting the edges. She feels peaceful, and Michel’s body heat is welcome at her side.

“Thinking?” she asks him once she’s finished, nudging him.

“That seems to be your domain,” he replies.

“True enough.” Aeveth holds out her right arm, and Michel takes it, his thumbs pressing into her muscles. His hands are still warm, very much so. “You have been known to do it as well.”

“Occasionally,” he says, self-deprecating, hands sliding up lightly until they find the back of her shoulder. “There isn’t much I can do about the bruises that won’t cause you pain. I can help with the other tensions you carry, however.”

She nods, shifting so that her back is to him. “Do it, then.”

Aeveth bites her lip when his fingertips dig into the series of knots between her neck and shoulder, moans softly as he wages war against reluctant, stubborn muscles. As he works Aeveth wonders why she has never asked him to do this for her, why she has not allowed him past her elbow. She has always liked his massages, especially when they were one of the few things that helped check the pain of the Anchor. 

“Did they teach this at the Academie…?” Aeveth mumbles, her head drooping. Michel’s fingertips skim the back of her neck, and she shivers. He finds the tension hiding huddled next to her shoulderblade.

“Not precisely,” he replies, his thumbs working out the first of a series of knots. The tightness drains away with every pass of his fingers; it’s magic, magical. 

“Relax,” he murmurs, his breath stirring her hair. Aeveth breathes in, the skin of her arms prickling with goosebumps. “It will be easier for you if you do.” 

“Michel, how will I be able to keep watch now?” Aeveth complains when he pulls his hands away. She is loose and satiated, glutted with lassitude. “I’m ready to curl up and go to sleep.” She catches his moonlit grin, rakish, as he gets to his feet and stretches.

“You asked it of me, your Worship, and I could not refuse.” He checks his surroundings before going to the tent and pulling the flap open. “Good night.”

“Good night.” 

Aeveth stares at the tent for Maker knows how long, ears straining to catch any sounds Michel makes: the creak of his riding leathers as he lays himself down; the slide of his bedroll over his legs, his hips, his chest; his contented sigh right before he closes his eyes and meditates himself into sleep. She sits and stares, her thoughts turning over and over, feeding upon themselves. 

That Michel is in love is remarkable and surprising, though it is unfair for her to think of him that way, unemotional and aloof. Beneath the carefully cultivated exterior lies an all too flawed man, one who often refuses to acknowledge even having feelings. The corners of Aeveth’s mouth turn up as she thinks about how much she knows of Briony. It isn’t much; Aeveth does not encounter her often while in Skyhold, and Aeveth tries her best to talk to everyone under her protection. 

She scowls. Maker, when had Michel found the time to fall in love while being dragged over half of Thedas?

She supposes it’s possible, especially when she herself had somehow forged a relationship with Cullen despite going weeks and months without seeing him. There is correspondence of course, but Aeveth has neglected to take notice of Michel’s letters and the frequency with which he sends and receives them. She sticks her lower lip out as she wracks her memory. Aeveth recalls him getting a bird once or twice before during missions, but that’s it.

Aeveth sighs, then rises to her feet, the grass a susurration beneath the pliant soles of her boots. Keeper lifts her head when Aeveth approaches, whickers when Aeveth kisses her cheek. “He’s in love with someone,” she whispers to her horse, “and it is neither me nor you.”

Keeper flicks an ear at her and bumps her with her head. Aeveth wraps her arms around the mare’s neck and rests her brow against her, closing her eyes.

*** *** ***

Aeveth is genuinely sad when the road to Skyhold comes into view. The last few days with Michel have been nothing short of delightful, barring the lack of bathtubs and adequate amounts of soap. Truly, though she misses Varric and Sera, the return trip from Jader has been like a vacation, one that she has sorely needed.

Michel rides beside her, looking no less handsome for being three days unshaven. Aeveth is sure she looks bedraggled, and nothing about her feels remotely ready for a public appearance. She frowns, thinking of how badly she needs to wash her hair.

“You are frowning at me,” Michel says. “What is the matter?”

“Nothing,” Aeveth responds. _Just wondering how you manage to look like that after days in the wilderness._ “I was just thinking about being home.”

He heaves a weary sigh. “Yes. I tire of forests.”

She smiles despite herself; Michel has made it more than clear in the past how much he despises being in woods of any sort. “Be that as it may, Michel, I confess that I’ve greatly enjoyed my time with you, and am saddened to return to my duties.”

“Really?” Surprise in the rising tone of his voice, his raised eyebrows.

“Well, yes,” Aeveth says. “Though you must be excited to be back at the keep finally. Are you ready to use your new skills?”

Michel keeps his eyebrows raised, and after a moment Aeveth giggles. “All right. We’ll start small. Flowers, to begin with.”

“We?” Michel snorts.

“Yes, we! I did not spend the last three days helping you to let you muck it up, Michel.” Aeveth had to admit it was heartwarming watching Michel trudge through tall grass and underbrush to retrieve those plants she thought would have been suitable in a bouquet. 

“You said to give her flowers,” Michel had said to her the first time she’d pointed out the blooms. “I am giving her flowers.”

It was not necessary and she had told him so, but Michel only gave her a flat look before setting off with a doggedness that bordered on darling. Whoever his mystery lady was, she was lucky.

Aeveth sighs. Cullen has never gotten her flowers, though they have lain in them enough times. In contrast, Michel has given Aeveth blossom after blossom until they poke out every which way from their saddlebags. Ironic, that Michel would give her flowers meant for someone else.

It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. Aeveth chastises herself for being silly. She is helping a friend, and it is ungracious to be jealous of a woman who makes him so happy. It is ungracious to think only of not wanting to leave his side when they take their midday rest, the faint smell of bergamot and cedar wafting to her. It is completely, totally ungracious to wonder what it would be like to kiss him when he stands with a faraway expression on his face, one hand absently stroking his horse’s neck.

Aeveth chastises herself again. Kissing Michel, really. She has gone too long without affection, and is now seeking it in the most unlikely of places. Michel has turned out to be a surprisingly good friend, and she will not let the errant fancies of a still-healing heart ruin things. She has ruined enough with Cullen.

Keeper pricks her ears and gives her tail a swish when Aeveth points her nose down the mountain pass. “You too, my best girl?” Aeveth asks her, scrubbing a hand through her mane. “Ready for your own stall, some fresh grain and hay, and a long rubdown by one of the stablehands? Perhaps a visit from the farrier?”

“Are you letting someone else do the work for once?” Michel asks.

“I'm not unreasonable. I think we deserve the break,” Aeveth replies. “The second we get in the gates we are handing our horses off to Master Dennet, then taking our things and going back to our quarters.” She bites her lip and casts a sly look at Michel. “And once you’re cleaned up you can visit -” Aeveth cuts herself off before she says Briony’s name.

“Visit?” Michel prods her.

“You know, your lady love,” she reminds him.

“Of course,” Michel says, ducking his head.

They pass the first of several outposts, hailing the guards as they go by. The road rises winding into the Frostbacks, the forested sides of the mountain growing scarcer and scarcer as they ascend, the air growing crisp and full of knives. They round a bend, and Skyhold reveals itself amidst rocky peaks covered in the season's first snow.

The keep is poignantly empty when they arrive, and to Aeveth it seems the bells echo more loudly off its walls when familiar faces are missing. Only Vivienne comes out briefly onto her balcony to wave to them as she and Michel dismount into a courtyard with fewer people than usual. Aeveth surveys the area; Master Dennet and a stableboy are the only ones in attendance. Neither Cullen, Leliana, nor Josephine are waiting to greet them. She supposes they’re busy.

Aeveth grunts when she takes her first steps, the ground rolling beneath her feet after being so long astride a horse. "Thank you, Master Dennet," she says, freeing her bags from the saddle. "I will be back later to check in."

He waves her off dismissively. "Take care of yourself first, your Worship."

Aeveth flattens her lips but does not reply, opting instead to find her way towards her temporary room. Michel walks beside her, shortening his stride to match hers, the wilted heads of the wildflowers sticking out of his pack bobbing with each step. Aeveth eyes them once they stand before their rooms.

"What is it?" Michel asks, and she thinks she can hear the tiredness in his voice. Warmth steals through her, bringing a smile to her face. Michel tries so hard to be strong for her, to bolster the image she wants to project. She doesn't begrudge him the moment of exhaustion.

"I was thinking of which flowers would be presentable for her," she says, reaching out, her finger brushing a still-vivid bloom of dianthus. "Since half of these are dried out. You could press them, but I am not sure what you would do with them. I have enough fresh embrium growing in my office to give the bouquet more body, and - " Aeveth puts her bags down and goes to the walkway wall, peering over the side. "There are a few flowers in the garden that would do."

"You do not think she would want all of these?" His voice remains subdued, solemn.

"The thought is sweet," Aeveth replies. "You spent days picking anything that drew my fancy, and surely that effort will make up for their condition. I am less familiar with her tastes than you, however." Aeveth smiles. "Since you have not told me her name. But were I her, I would not mind them."

He puts his own bags down then, spends a minute gathering the stems of every single flower into his hands. Dried petals float to the ground as Aeveth watches, bewildered.

"Are you going to give them to her now?" she asks. "You're hardly presentable. That's unlike you."

"I have learned," Michel says, pulling flowers from her pack, "that she cares little for my presentation." He straightens with a frown, shifting his grip on the mass of blooms. The stems crackle, a chorus of tiny lightning bolts; more petals drift to the floor.

"If that is your way of saying she's unaffected by your looks..." Aeveth laughs. "Michel, please. Even covered in dust and three days unshaven, you still turn heads anywhere you go. But if you're saying she only cares for you and not your physical attributes, then I would say you have more of a chance with her than you think."

He blinks. "Truly?"

"Truly."

"Then take these." He offers her the bunch of flowers. There are enough that he needs two hands to hold them all.

Aeveth does so, puzzlement creasing her brow. "Why? Aren't they meant for Briony?"

Michel's mouth drops open in shock. "Briony? Ser Briony?"

 _Oh yes,_ Aeveth thinks smugly. "I've got you figured out, Michel de Chevin."

Michel dissolves into laughter, hanging onto the wall for support, one hand braced on his knee. Aeveth watches stupefied as he almost collapses from laughing so hard, completely dumbstruck by his reaction. "What?" she demands after a moment, and Michel just laughs harder at her. "What? It's Briony, isn't it? Why are you laughing?"

With an effort he pushes himself back up, his right hand going to his face, palm dragging down over his eyes, his nose, his mouth. "Aeveth, you _fool._ It's you."

Embarrassment heats her cheeks. "I did not realize I was being entertaining just now."

"No, no, no," he says, shaking his head. "How can you be so brilliant and yet so oblivious? It's you. The flowers are for you. Every flower I have given you in the last three days has been for you." He steps closer, his amusement fleeing, replaced by the tenderness that had gone straight to her heart three days ago. "The woman I am in love with...is you."

Aeveth reels, nerveless hands dropping the flowers. They scatter over her feet, littering the walkway in pink and yellow, orange and white. 

“Wh…what…” She covers her mouth with both hands so that her heart does not escape from it. 

"Aeveth?" Michel says, tentative, afraid.

"Me?" she asks, trembling.

"You." He takes another step closer. "But I don't know if you would return my affections."

Aeveth reaches for him with a shaking hand, her pulse racing. It takes all the strength within her to meet the stunning blue of his eyes, to say words that have lain winged and fluttering in her throat, trapped by her own blindness.

"Why don't you kiss me and find out?"

Michel's arms slip around her waist, and Aeveth is not at all startled to discover that they fit. His head lowers slowly inch by inch, until the heat of his skin is her own, until the confines of his space are hers. Michel's forehead touches hers, and all she can see are the depths of the ocean in his eyes. Everything stills around them then, hushes and hangs, falls away to nothing.

They stand together, breathing each other in.

“Aeveth,” Michel says, his eyes closing, lips parting, the distance between them the length of a whisper. His lower lip brushes against hers, hesitant. She feels cool air over her lips, and is unsure whose it is. Both, she thinks. It’s both.

Michel holds himself so precisely in the eddies of their commingled breath, his heart fragile, spun glass. 

Aeveth will not break it.

"Yes," she sighs, soft as a thought, knowing he will feel it.

Their mouths press together, then join.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am both delighted and horrified that I wrote this.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Ish. But yeah, NSFW.

“I can’t believe you think I’m difficult and complicated.”

Michel tries to keep the smile from his face. “Are you still thinking about that?”

“If it weren’t so true, I’d be insulted.” Aeveth shifts beside him in the pre-dawn light, turning so she can drape an arm over his stomach. She slips slim fingers underneath the hem of his tunic, rucking it up so that she can drag her palm over his skin. She has practiced restraint ever since she knocked on his door in the dark of the night and climbed into his bed fully clothed. It has since been several hours of mindful touches and long kisses, and she is losing patience.

He breathes in deeply, trying to find the serenity and focus he had been taught at the Academie so that he can ignore what she is doing. “You are also unbelievably dense.”

Her mouth quirks into a pout. “You’ll never let me forget that, will you?”

“Never.” Michel catches her wrist in his hand and rolls onto his side, then brings her hand up so that he can brush his lips over her fingers. 

Aeveth whines softly. “Michel.” She kisses his chin, then nibbles on it. She frees her hand and swipes him clean with her thumb, giggling.

“I know how you are with this,” he says to her, touching her shoulder, tracing a line up and down her arm. He lets the fabric of her shirt carry the motion. The naked desire in her eyes almost undoes him. “I do not want this to mean nothing.”

She sighs. “I have never wanted anyone more, Michel.”

“I believe you.” He truly does. He does not think there exists anything more weighty and dense in the world than their longing for each other. But his Orlesian upbringing leaves him deathly practical. “If we do this, there is no turning back. I do not think that is something I can neatly put away, should you…”

“Should I care for you less than you care for me?” Aeveth finishes for him. “I understand. I do. I’ll try to hold myself back. But Maker, I _want_ you.” She kisses him hungry and slow, opening his mouth under hers, tasting him with languid flicks of her tongue. 

Michel inhales through his nose and kisses her back, his hand going to the nape of her neck, his fingers threading through her hair. He loses himself to her then, lets himself be defined by the touch of her lips and the rush of her breath and the sound of the small, needy noises she makes in her throat, involuntary. He does not stop her when her hand returns to him, fingers drawing a line down to his trousers. He feels more than sees her grin.

“Aeveth,” he says, tearing himself away from the marvel of her lips for just a second. He’s hopelessly addicted to how she kisses. “The wanting is not the issue. I have no shortage of it.”

Fire blazes in her eyes. She closes her hand around him, strokes him firmly. Michel lets out a tortured exhale, biting his lip. _“Aeveth.”_

“It’s laundry day,” she whispers to him, her lips at the corner of his mouth, words misting past his lips. He sips them down. “You can get me back for this later.”

He would laugh if he weren’t so aroused. Instead he groans as she strokes him again, groans a second time when she captures his lips with hers and swallows his profanities. If his blasphemy never leaves his mouth then the Maker will never know, and he will only have sinned with her. Aeveth moans along with him as she kisses him; it’s clear that she derives just as much pleasure from the giving of it as he does from receiving it.

A breath, two; her tempo increases, pulling him along. Michel tries his best but it’s impossible to fight her. It has always been impossible to fight her, he thinks, his hips jerking, chin tilting up, mouth falling open. Aeveth nips him underneath his jaw as the air halts in his throat and his body tightens. “Damn,” he moans, the word choking off partway. “Aeveth!“

“Language, Michel,” she teases him, holding him still.

He opens his eyes to hers, watches the slow blink of her eyelids over lust-dilated pupils. Michel lets the pounding of blood fade in his ears before he kisses her. It’s always uncomfortable, that damp-slick feeling, but he puts it aside for a moment.

“What about yourself?” he asks her.

She releases him and turns onto her back. The covers gape; Aeveth’s smile is dirty and wicked as she inhales deeply and sighs.

“You can watch me,” she says to him, “and pretend it is a conditioning exercise to test your resolve.”

He fails the test, propping himself up on elbow above her as she begins to crest, hand diving beneath the fabric of her tunic. Maker’s mercy, she isn’t wearing anything underneath. His fingers slide past heated skin, mold around the swell of her breast. She gasps when he rolls her nipple between thumb and forefinger, and a compressed moan escapes her when he kisses her. It doesn’t take long before she climaxes wonderfully, her tiny noises and hitching breaths dissipating into the air past his cheek.

Michel can feel just how relaxed she is afterwards, how her body pools into the mattress. He watches her as she recovers, the room warming with the strengthening sunlight coming in from the windows. The faint red glow from Knightslayer fades as the rays fill the air.

Aeveth hums as she opens her eyes and smiles at him. The affection strikes him through, a dart to his chest. 

“You know what would be better than this?” she asks him softly.

Being inside her of course, with hips joined to hips and her rippling around him; Michel also has no shortage of imagination when it comes to that. But he wants to do this correctly. “Aeveth,” Michel says, a warning. “No more of that. We’ve discussed it. Neither you nor I want children.”

Something flickers over her face. “Nothing has ever happened, Michel. The things I’ve done to myself… and even before, in the Circle. Nothing.”

“I know. Yet I remain cautious.” Michel does not say that his decision to be childless stems in part from not wanting to pass on any hint of elven blood. Michel also suspects Aeveth is well aware of his feelings. “I want to be completely sure, Aeveth. Because I am afraid of…” He swallows.

Aeveth smiles and takes up the rest of his sentence. “...how you’ll feel if it isn’t true, or real? Because you don’t want to be left behind if my emotions are not strong enough to withstand the tugging of the leash? Because it will be simpler to walk away knowing we have not connected on that level?”

“Yes.” His voice comes out hoarse.

“All right.” Her kiss lingers on his cheek well after she pulls away. He can still feel the caress of her fingers on his neck. “We’ll take it slowly, then. But please don’t fault me for how much I want you, Michel. You’ve made me happy, and that’s a dangerous thing.”

Michel swallows past the lump that’s suddenly formed in his throat. It’s hard and unwieldy, a stone that grinds his breathing to a halt. He nods instead, and she worms out from underneath the covers, skimming off her breeches, crossing her arms and shucking her tunic in one fluid motion. He watches her, appreciative, as she wets a hand towel with water from the ewer on the far table, wrings it out into the basin, then brings it to him. Michel gets out of bed gingerly, undressing.

Aeveth returns for a second washcloth, and the simple motion of her hips and the swing of her hair is so captivating that he pauses what he’s doing just to take her in. In the morning light he can see that her skin is patchy, whorled with dark and light, a result of being at the center of the blast. So far she has not shown any shame in her body, but he also has not stared at her like this before.

She turns, her mouth pursing when she meets his eyes. “Caught with your pants down, de Chevin?” It’s a challenge. He can read her defensiveness in how she stands.

In his training Michel had learned how to take a hit, how to move with the force of it, how to let it knock him back in order to use the momentum to his advantage. He does so now with her. 

“It seems so, your Worship.” Her eyebrows draw down in annoyance. He gives her that second before his counterattack lands. “You are so beautiful I could not help but admire you.”

“Orlesians,” she scoffs, but as she turns away he sees a smile steal across her face.

Aeveth burrows back into his bed once she’s clean, pats the spot beside her with her eyes alight. “It’s early yet,” she says. “I might sleep here.”

He tosses his soiled clothes into the hamper, then returns to her, pulling the covers up to his shoulders. Their skins glide together before their bodies settle, and to Michel the feeling is just luscious, luxuriant, the best thing yet about being with her. He has not craved touch like this in his whole life. He might just take the goodness and soulful comfort of her body as a substitute in case she does not love him. 

Aeveth kisses his shoulder, traces the contour of his scarred eyebrow with her thumb. “You still have Knightslayer up there.”

“A friend gave me the blade, along with some choice words.” Michel grins at her. “In the interests of full disclosure, that friend was you.”

She laughs, flinging herself away. “I will never hear the end of this! I had a momentary lapse.” She sighs, and Michel resists the urge to insert a pithy comment. “Doesn’t it bother you, sitting there like that?”

“No. Should it? It is a reminder. That friend I spoke of also gave me wisdom amongst her fury. I will remind you that the friend was you, again.”

“Michel!”

He offers her an innocent smile. “Yes, your Worship?”

“Maferath’s wrinkly ballsack!”

He chuckles, reaching out, wrapping an arm around her so that her waist sits in his elbow, her shoulderblade in his hand. He pulls her close into a hug, smiling when she intertwines her legs with his. They fall silent and Michel dozes, the scent of her shampoo in his nose.

He comes back to wakefulness when she stirs, peeling herself from him. “Mm,” Aeveth says sleepily, “I should - “

From next door comes a loud knock. “Your Worship!” a voice calls. “Your Worship?” More knocking.

Aeveth freezes, eyes wide. “It’s Liren,” she whispers. “Don’t move. She’s coming here next.”

As predicted, there is a knock on his door. “Messere de Chevin?”

Michel places his lips next to Aeveth’s ear. "How did you know she was coming here next? I was under the impression we were being discreet."

She smiles nervously and responds, "You and I are not the only ones who have observational skills."

The knock sounds more loudly. "Messere de Chevin?"

Aeveth stifles her giggles with a hand. 

“What time is it?” Michel asks, unable to resist kissing the shell of her ear, or taking her earlobe between his teeth. 

Aeveth fights back her moan and waits, alert, listening for footsteps fading away. Finally, she says, “Time to stop shirking my duties.”

He kisses her, lips lingering. “Are you going, then?”

“No.” She kisses him back closed-mouthed. “I’d like to pretend the world doesn’t exist outside this room for a little while longer.” Aeveth tucks herself against him. Michel's fingers walk down her back until he finds a knot; he massages it out to the sound of her grateful sigh.

"When you were in the Frostback Basin," Aeveth says, lips moving velvety over the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Michel shivers. "Did you talk to Professor Kenric at all?"

"I did not," he replies, pulsing the flat of his thumb into the knot. "Why do you ask?"

"I was wondering if you knew the history of the Inquisition."

He blinks. "Formed in 1:20 Divine, led by Inquisitor Ameridan, who vanished mysteriously as the Inquisition was subsumed into the Chantry. It resulted in the formation of the Seekers."

"Correct," Aeveth says, rolling her R curiously. "You _have_ been well educated. The Frostback Basin was the last known location of Inquisitor Ameridan. When I traveled there, I found him and spoke to him."

"You...spoke to him?" Michel scoots backwards so he can see Aeveth's face.

"He had been locked in a time-stasis spell for the last eight hundred years." Aeveth looks pained at the memory. "Would you like to know something about him, Michel?" 

She waits for his nod. 

"He was an elf."

Shock courses through his veins. "What?"

"An elven mage, even. Respected and esteemed of Emperor Drakon. They were the closest of friends." Aeveth's eyes search his. "This history has been systematically erased from Orlesian records. Professor Kenric knew nothing about Ameridan prior to his journey, and he had memorized everything the university had available."

She shifts, freeing her Anchored hand, laying her long fingers against his lips. "He was Dalish as well, from a time when humans and elves lived and worked side by side as allies. We found his shrine to both the Maker and the elven gods. Drakon was ready to proclaim him as head of the Seekers when he disappeared. Don't you see, Michel?"

His breath whistles sibilant between her fingers.

"Don't you see?" Aeveth's voice drops. "There is no need to be ashamed of who you are. This could change everything about Orlais. This - if Celene knew, Michel!" Her face brightens with optimism. "If Celene and Briala knew, imagine what could happen. The elves were instrumental in birthing Orlais herself. What is the shame in that? The only shame belongs to the humans who have been oppressing them."

Aeveth pushes herself up on one elbow, excited. "The possibilities are endless once this information is published. I have been waiting for Professor Kenric to finish writing his paper, but as soon as it's out... oh, Michel, I don't know what I'd do first! Maker." She withdraws her hand, replaces it with her lips. "What do you think? What kind of change can we effect?"

He kisses her so that he doesn't have to reply right away, his mind going through all the potential outcomes. The infighting among university scholars to verify or denounce the paper, or Professor Kenric's qualifications. The rebellions that would undoubtedly happen as a result. Alienages burning, every single one, upsetting the flow of commerce in the cities, disrupting the economy as elven servants refused to take orders, perhaps even turning on their masters. Gaspard descending upon the elves with the might and force of the entire Orlesian army, destroying thousands of innocent lives.

"Michel..." Aeveth's head tilts, concerned. "You are Orlesian first and foremost. Leliana and Josephine have not spent their lives steeped in the culture and politics of the nation. What is your assessment?"

"Your Worship," he says, and it is fitting, because Aeveth at this moment is not Aeveth, naked and splendid in his arms, but the Inquisitor, the Lady Trevelyan, the Herald of Andraste, she who controls destinies. "I believe that if you champion the professor's research directly you will tip Orlais towards chaos and revolution. Revisionist history has only ever made those in power more desperate to hold it. They will not relinquish their privileges easily. Neither will the vast majority of Orlesians. They care little for the plight of the elves, and some even believe that lying with an elf is no better than lying with a beast."

"That is the foulest - “ Aeveth clicks her teeth shut over her sentence, biting it in half. “They would lose nothing by the elves growing in power, and gain everything by working together." She frowns, disquieted.

"All they would hear, your Worship, is that the elves would gain something, even a pittance, and they nothing at all. To them it would be seem unfair, and no amount of explanation could dissuade them otherwise. Then Celene, Briala, and Gaspard would fight a war on more fronts than they can afford. The nobles, the Council, the people of Orlais themselves. Three rulers working perfectly together could not hold Orlais together if those circumstances came to pass." 

He keeps himself from smoothing away the hurt on her face with hands that constantly long to touch her. "No, your Worship. I cannot see any wisdom in the public backing of Professor Kenric's research, as right and as honorable as it is to do so. If you are to effect change in Orlais, it must be through other means."

She sighs, crestfallen. "I thank you for your advice, Michel," she says. "The last thing Orlais needs is more unrest."

He nods once. "For what it is worth, your Worship, I am sorry. Your intentions are good. The Orlesian elves deserve better than what they have."

Aeveth cups his cheek, her brown eyes large and sad in the midmorning sunlight. "You deserved a better childhood, to have better circumstances than the ones forced upon you. Though you have not expressed any regret for the actions you've taken. It saddens me that atonement is something that is beyond you." She nuzzles his nose with hers, and Michel's chest aches at the tenderness of the gesture. She is not yet done talking, and he loves her even knowing the headsman's axe is hovering over his neck.

"If I can change that in any way with this information, I will. If I can better lives so that no more of you are produced, I will. And if I need to cast judgment upon you to do so..."

Her eyes harden. "I will."

She rises then and begins to dress herself swiftly, leaving him stunned and speechless on the bed. “Aeveth?” Michel manages. “Aeveth. Don’t - “ He scrambles off the mattress to intercept her before she reaches the door. “Aeveth, stop.”

Michel witnesses then the mercurial turn of her emotions, the unpredictable swings that make her so difficult at times. “What, Michel?” she snaps at him, holding herself defiant and proud.

He keeps his voice level, not wanting to give her fuel for the fire that’s already beginning to burn out of control. “I recall you saying you did not want to play the Game.”

Aeveth’s jaw juts out. “That one time. Just that one time.”

He regards her seriously, putting into his gaze the intensity and heaviness that has cowed many a noble. There is no cowing Aeveth however, and Michel knows it. There is only cold rationality and hard logic.

He lowers his voice even further. “Is that true, Aeveth? Did you not tell me this is what the Game does, destroys people for power and personal gain? I lost everything to it. And you would sacrifice me for it.”

She tenses, eyes widening. “That isn’t…”

“It is,” he breaks in. “It is. Aeveth, you cannot express misgivings about the Game, then continue to play the Game. I will do whatever you command of me, submit myself to your judgment if that is what you deem best, but you cannot stand on both sides of the issue and make declarations. You wanted to change. You wanted to stop playing.”

He takes a step closer, his hands resting upon her shoulders. There is no false affectation in his voice when he speaks. There is only his heartfelt request, spoken with all the honesty and sincerity he has within him. 

“Stop playing.”

There is a moment of tension so fraught and jittering that he thinks he is in danger of losing her. Aeveth has ever played the Game, first out of necessity, then later out of habit, and has played for so long that it might as well be ingrained into her personality. He holds his breath.

And then she sighs, her shoulders slumping. “I wanted to help them.”

He folds her into his arms, touching his cheek to hers. “You have tried, and it would not be seen as unworthy if you turn yourself to a new cause. You are not Celene nor Briala, whose decrees influence directly the lives of peasants.”

“I’m not giving up, and they’re people, Michel. They’re people.” She kisses his chest.

“My apologies. People.” She kisses him again. Michel relaxes, lifting a hand to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “You are idealistic, and did not like my assessment of what would happen.”

“But you’re right. I know you’re right.” Her arms encircle his waist, and she links her hands loosely behind his back. “The advice was sound. The receiver is being difficult and complicated again. She will have to find another way, as told.”

“The receiver sounds like someone I know,” Michel says, smiling when her head head jerks up, meeting her glare with an expression of gentle amusement. “She reminds me of you. Moral and passionate, with the drive to help those who have suffered at the hands of others.”

“Ser Briony, perhaps?” She smiles prettily, and Michel feels himself melting before it.

“Aeveth, you fool,” he whispers, lowering his head to hers, their lips meeting in a simple, sweet kiss. “It’s you.”

She laughs softly, and Michel lets that sound carry them both back to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW NSFW NSFW

Aeveth has been practicing, but isn’t sure if she’s ready.

She has certainly waited long enough before trying it out, she thinks. Long enough for the season to turn and for the winter snows to blanket Skyhold solidly in cold, clean white. Long enough to let the giddiness and excitement of a new relationship ease down into a wordless partnership of shared thoughts and communicative touches. Long enough for her to find her way to Michel so often that he leaves his door unlocked in the evenings, knowing that when third watch comes she will be waking from peaceful, restful sleep instead of searching for it.

It’s been long enough for Michel to weave himself inextricably into her life, seeping into her daily routine seamlessly and comfortably. Aeveth has her War Table sessions in the morning and office hours in the afternoon, but the nights spent talking with Michel are what she looks forward to the most. Sometimes they don’t talk, and Aeveth looks forward to that as well. They simply reschedule for the morning.

Keeper has deemed Michel an acceptable second rider, and Aeveth has had to chastise her more than once for making moon-eyes at Michel when he is astride another horse.

It’s been long enough that when Aeveth arrives alone for her chores, the first question she will receive is, “Where is Messere de Chevin?” It seems all of Skyhold knows now; Aeveth only has a few misgivings over it and pretends they are still being discreet, even though they show up to the tavern as a pair and leave together. “He looks happier,” Leliana remarks to her once, and Aeveth doesn’t even have to ask who. “You do as well.”

It’s been long enough, she determines. Long enough that Aeveth has to tolerate Liren’s eye-rolling when she mutters about her quarters still not being finished.

She’s nervous when she first tries, for what reason she doesn’t know. After Cullen, Aeveth doesn’t want to risk heartbreak again. But she and Michel are more than just friends, and he deserves something better than a holding pattern. _I love you,_ she thinks first, experimental, in the early morning hours that she claims for herself. When nothing happens - no terror rising in her chest, no jeer of mocking laughter at herself for being overly attached - she tries it again. _I love you,_ she thinks when Michel rises sleep-tousled from his bed, his woolen tunic falling just so by his hips. He doesn’t look at her, but she knows he won’t. Every morning when he wakes he goes through a routine of breathing and stretches; in all the time Aeveth has known him, his discipline has never wavered. 

She has watched him practicing at camp, huddled into a blanket over morning tea; she has watched him practice with a measured calm as gurguts patrol not a hundred feet away. Now Aeveth watches him practice in the privacy of his room, and knows she will have at least a quarter of an hour to appreciate the art of his body as it works. _I love you,_ she sends out when his torso twists and his muscles ripple, the early morning light gleaming silver off the myriad scars on his skin. Aeveth has had the stories of each and every one of them. _I love you,_ she thinks, her thoughts disappearing into the gust of his breath as he exhales and straightens, bringing his practice to a close.

She thinks it more and more frequently with the passing of the days. He smiles; _I love you._ His professional, polite bow to her when she passes him in Skyhold gets an _I love you._ At night when she runs her thumb over his eyebrow and kisses the corner of his mouth, well. If her skin could speak when touching his, it would shout _I love you._

She graduates to whispers, mouthing it when his back is turned, murmuring it like prayers into the warmth between their bodies when he’s asleep. They’re the only canticles she will ever say. She covers her mouth and forces the words back down her throat after he kisses her, afraid they will fly out, afraid they will seep between her fingers and wing over to him. She is not ready.

Nevertheless Aeveth keeps practicing, hoping that familiarity will alleviate the difficulty in speaking the words aloud. Speaking them aloud with her real voice, and not in the soft breaths that uncurl like fog over the curve of his shoulder, not in the long, lingering stares that pass between them when they’re alone together. Out loud: in the mornings when they wake, the first thing she wants him to know; at night before they fall asleep, the last thing she wishes for him to carry into his dreams. Perhaps they will meet in the Fade, and she will say the words then too. _I love you._

This morning it is cold, colder than cold, a freezing chill that goes to the bone even under the many layers of blankets Aeveth has dumped onto Michel’s bed. Aeveth typically doesn’t suffer from the cold, but nothing seems to help, not the socks and woolen trousers she’s wearing, not the long-sleeved tunic beneath the hand-knitted sweater Josephine gifted her, not the crackling fire she waved into life some time ago. Aeveth opens her eyes blearily, her skin prickling into goosebumps. She is cold, but not cold enough to shiver. Cold enough to be uncomfortable, not cold enough to do something more about it except shuffle closer to Michel, whose eyelashes are still laid flush on his skin, whose chest moves slightly with his respiration. Aeveth can count a leisurely seven between each rise, his ribs expanding underneath her palm.

He stirs when she pulls herself close to him, doesn’t open his eyes as he curls himself around her, his heat welcome relief. Aeveth tucks the blankets back around the tangle of their bodies, kisses whatever is in reach. It’s his nose, and she smiles to herself before kissing his mouth and making herself comfortable, sharing his pillow. He mumbles something incoherently.

“I love you,” Aeveth sighs sleepily, then gasps. “Oh, shit.”

Michel’s eyes fly open, a startling shade of blue. “Is it that bad?” he asks, voice raspy with sleep, his accent lilting strongly. His muscles tense, and she perceives the motions as if they are her own.

Aeveth feels blood rushing to her cheeks, wishes she could shut her eyes and drift back into the sleep she finds with him, her dreams untouched by magic. “No,” she replies. “Not...not at all.”

“A relief,” he murmurs. “Would you mind repeating what you said? I didn’t hear the first time.”

She is only inches from him, and his mouth is a temptation, an enticement, the curve of his lower lip sinful and inviting. She can kiss him and he would understand, because by now Michel knows her thoroughly in word and action. She could kiss him and lose herself that way, and make him forget she ever said anything.

Aeveth knows he won’t forget, that if she does what she’s thinking he will allow her to distract him, and that in his understanding of her he will say nothing.

She draws in a soft breath, looks into the depths of his eyes. They are beautiful, blue shot through with green and gray, and Aeveth knows she could spend half a day gazing into them.

“I love you,” she says, her heart in her mouth.

Michel leans in for a kiss, and her lips part underneath his. She is sure he can taste her emotions with every slow stroke of his tongue over her lip, hear her soul singing paeans to him in the perfect seal of their mouths. Michel breathes her in, and her heart goes with him.

“I love you too,” he replies, and gives it back.

It bursts in her chest, heat and giddiness flooding her veins, washing all other things away. “Oh,” is all she can say.

“Oh?” he returns gently before he kisses her, his hand going to the back of her head, pressing her to him.

“Oh,” she affirms, stroking the backs of her fingers over his cheek, _I love you, I love you._

He smiles then, beatific and sunny, warming her from head to toe. Aeveth almost doesn’t recognize the expression it’s so rare; Maker, he’s happy. She’s made him happy.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

Michel snorts. “What for?”

“For saying it like that. I wanted to make it more special. I’ve been practicing for a while.” She can’t keep her lips off him now that she’s said it. Aeveth kisses Michel’s cheek, the right side of his mouth, his nose, his chin.

He glares at her then. Aeveth recoils, taken aback. “What?” she asks, defensive.

“How long is a while?” he demands, brows furrowing over suddenly flinty eyes.

“I don’t know, days definitely. A week? A week and a half? Two?” Aeveth tries to think.

Michel narrows his eyes at her. “Aeveth Trevelyan, are you telling me I could have had you two weeks ago if you had just told me?”

She starts laughing. “Maker, Michel! I was nervous!”

He only narrows his eyes further until he smolders. Aeveth swallows at the increased intensity of his gaze, the surfacing hunger that he’s been holding in check.

“Aeveth, do you know how many ways we could have had each other in that time?” Michel finds the waistband of her trousers, begins tugging it down. “How many times I could have kept you here in this room instead of letting you leave?”

“Fourteen?” she offers up, and he laughs.

“At least,” he says. “My heart, at least.”

“Oh,” Aeveth replies, and then there is just Michel’s mouth and Michel’s hands, Michel’s skin and his scent and the burr of his growl when she reaches for him. His _hands,_ hands which have held her, comforted her, coaxed serenity into her flesh; his hands, Maker, his hands are touching her in such a way as to draw her desire up from the ocean deeps, stirring to life a current that runs inexorable and powerful within her. There is the fire she so expects from acts like this, but with Michel it burns steady and bright instead of incandescent and raging, and as long as his skin is singing into hers there will be no shortage of fuel.

Michel kisses her and kisses her, kisses her between the shirts they need to pull off, kisses her as clothing drops from the edge of the bed. He kisses her like he has known all his life how to do it, kisses her sensually senseless, slow and sweet. Aeveth sighs into him, and with her eyes closed and her fingers in his hair and their lips on each other’s she realizes that she has never wanted so desperately to blur her boundaries with another. She has never before wanted so desperately to reach out and find a world beyond her fingers and the limitations of her own body, to chart the starry galaxies of the unknown that reside within him.

“Michel,” Aeveth gasps, his hands and mouth points of pleasure on her. She is unable to bear it anymore. She _must_ know him. “You, I need _you._ ”

Michel groans, and the thick slide of him entering her is enough to make them both swear. The sensation of him is almost too much even as deliberate as he is, yet Aeveth wants more of him, more of his delicious fit, wants to be so near that it will be impossible to tell them apart. She pulls him down for a kiss as she wraps her legs around his waist, arches against him, urging him deeper. One slight rock of his hips and everything in her tightens for a second, clenches like a fist, profound and primal. He would undo her with himself.

“Aeveth,” Michel moans, and he’s panting, his breath misting hot and humid down her neck and shoulders. Her hand wanders down to the muscles of his rear as they flex in concert with his hips. “If you keep doing that I don’t - I don’t think - “

“Can’t help it,” Aeveth replies, a guttural sound escaping her as she draws him in. “Maker,” she says, throat contracting around another moan, eyes slipping shut, rolling back.

Michel hisses at her loss of control, stilling himself in her to no avail. Aeveth’s gravity is too great.

“Have you never…?” Aeveth lets the question fall to the bed, her body surging again, as relentless as the surf. When the pull eases she picks it back up. “...in a woman, Michel, never?”

His hand splays over her back, and for all of Michel’s reluctance he still clasps her to him, the muscles of his arm bunching. “No,” he growls, thrusting against her, their hips rolling with the same motion, “never.”

Aeveth’s fingers dig white spots into the back of his shoulder as she ripples around him again, her free hand dragging fingertips up and down his side. Maker, they aren’t even doing anything fast and it’s already incredible. “Can you - _oh_ \- can you trust me?” 

“I,” Michel begins, but doesn’t finish. His exhale is voiced, needy, on the brink. “I want to.”

“Then trust me,” Aeveth tells him, gasping, fingers and toes curling and uncurling. She is near, so near, and she wants to go over with him. “Michel - “ and she kisses him fiercely, writhing against him, done waiting. His breaths slice and slice the air, an indication of the fight within him.

“I love you,” she moans, and is answered by Michel’s helpless cry. She knows it’s the words which will push him over, and she wonders how much they weigh. “I love you - Michel, I - “ 

Michel’s hips catch in hers and it’s glorious, glorious, oh _Maker,_ it’s glorious, it’s divine. It’s divine how they cling shaking to each other; it’s heaven to hear the rising pitch of his voice with each snap of their hips. Aeveth seeks him, grinds against him, her mouth open and tongue useless, her entire self collapsing down, condensing into darkness before blowing out, expanding. There are no words for their union, none at all, only sweat and ecstasy and fingers gripped tight on each other’s bodies, emotion rising in the wake of their frenzied breaths.

Aeveth lies beneath him, the density of his body welcome on hers, keeps herself ivy-twined around him. She feels the play of Michel’s back muscles underneath her palms. “I love you,” she whispers to him; his eyes are still closed. He whispers it back, enfolding her into a hug, tucking his head beside hers, groaning as he withdraws.

"There are herbs and potions," she says to him softly, aching. "I've taken both. I already take the herbs on their own but I will add a daily potion for your peace of mind."

"Thank you," he replies. "Whatever happens now, we will see it through, I suppose.”

“Uncertainty, Michel?”

He grunts. “Of a sort. I have no experience with this.” He shifts his weight over to better lay on his side, gestures to their bodies, half-covered with blankets. Aeveth is damp where their skins have touched, and she loves it. “With…”

Aeveth brings her lips to his. “With being in a relationship? If being tethered is what you fear, I promise I won’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do. I won’t do anything that binds you to me unless it is something you want, and we agree on.” She folds her bottom lip under her front teeth, then smiles faintly, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “The closest I ever got to marriage was trying on the dress. I am not in the business of asking more than what is willingly given. I would release you from your oaths to the Inquisition, if that was what you wanted, even. If it came down to it.”

“No.” Michel’s denial is quietly vehement. “I will stay with you, and lay my trust at your feet.”

“Michel, I don’t want it at my feet. I’m not that kind of person.”

He smiles. “Then I lay it in your hands.”

“That’s better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are love.


	20. Chapter 20

The letter sits on her desk, the envelope made of the finest, heaviest paper, embossed with a roaring lion, hand-inked and colored by the most skilled artisans in Val Royeaux. On the back is a seal of beeswax into which the crest of the Valmonts has been stamped. It is cracked, pieces of wax laying on her blotter. Aeveth has already read the missive, folded it, and re-housed it.

The watery, pale sunlight of late winter sifts through the floor to ceiling windows of her office, whitened with reflected snow. It renders her office sterile and impersonal, and not even the bright greenery nor the colorful assortment of banners can mask the severity which grips the room. Leaving the curtains open means the entire room is harsh and frigid, but Aeveth wants the natural light for her plants. Besides, she doesn’t get cold.

Today she is freezing, and the chills will not stop crawling ant-like down her spine, her nerves eroding under fingers of sluggish, icy water.

She shivers and pulls her cloak closer, dread roiling just beneath her sternum.

“Your Worship?” Liren knocks on the door, then opens it.

“Aeveth.”

“Aeveth.” This is a well-rehearsed exchange. “Commander Cullen is here to deliver reports.”

“Send him in, if you would.”

Cullen walks in a moment later, his gait familiar and measured, rolling, confident, well-accustomed to his station. He holds a sheaf of papers in his gloved hands. If he is bothered by the way her office resembles her old sanctuary, he does not show it. 

“Inquisitor.”

“Commander. Those are the numbers I wanted?”

He nods and places them on her desk, then spots the letter. Leliana had given it to her at the end of their daily War Table meeting, and Aeveth has put off handling the business for as long as she possibly can.

“Have you read it?” His voice is gentle, worried.

“I have.” 

"Have you summoned him?"

Aeveth shakes her head. “Not yet. I was going to do it less formally.” She takes in her surroundings. There is only one other chair upon which to sit; it is simple and austere, sans upholstery, much like the chairs in the Circle. The office is not meant to be welcoming.

Cullen nods. “I haven’t read what’s inside, but from what Leliana said, I can guess. He’s been a good friend to you. I hope he does the right thing.”

Aeveth closes her eyes, swallows with difficulty. “Cullen, that’s precisely what I’m afraid he’s going to do.”

He looks at her, weighing her words with her golden gaze. Eventually he says, “What do you want him to do?”

She covers her face with her right hand. “Whatever he feels is best.”

“Even if that means relinquishing his post?”

“Yes.” A whisper. 

Cullen looks pained. "Are you happy with him?"

Aeveth meets his eyes, bracing herself for the familiar jolt of chemistry. There is none, however, and neither is there an incessant itch crawling beneath her skin, demanding that he touch her.

She exhales, relieved. "I am." 

Cullen's jaw clenches.

Aeveth stands fully after a minute, picking up the letter, tucking it into a large pocket sewn into the lining of her cloak. “I should... I should go deliver this to him. Pardon me, Commander.” Aeveth feels Cullen’s eyes following her as she exits her office.

At this time of day the training has been completed, so Aeveth goes down the many stairs, her cloak floating behind her, and heads for the stables. She hopes Michel isn’t there, hopes there will be another excuse to put off delivering the letter, but as she approaches she sees Keeper standing in the yard, ears swiveling, mouth working around a large carrot. Around her are empty buckets and brushes and scrapers; Michel is half bent over, fastening a blanket around Keeper’s chest.

He turns when Keeper whickers at her, flashes her a smile. “Your Worship,” he greets her. “Is the day over already?”

“I left a bit early.” Aeveth takes comfort in the softness of Keeper’s nose, the whuffling noises she makes when Aeveth’s fingers move beneath her chin. “Are you all done?”

“Almost. Would you prefer to take Keeper back, or clean up the accoutrements?”

Aeveth snorts lightly. “You already knew what I was going to pick, Michel.” She unclips Keeper’s lead and walks the mare back to her stall. Aeveth busies herself with scooping grain and hauling hay; by the time Michel returns, her horse is munching contentedly, her attention wholly on her meal.

“Something is troubling you.” Michel’s head tilts slightly as he surveys her, pulling on his gloves.

“I can’t hide anything from you, it seems.” Aeveth exits the barn; Michel fastens a thick cloak around his shoulders as he matches her pace. It’s for show, she knows. The Academie had trained him to withstand extreme cold, and it’s likely he doesn’t feel it right now.

She leads him back to the Great Hall, strides briskly through it so the petitioners will not bother her, opens her tower door so that Michel can pass through first. “Liren,” she calls out to her runner. “This is my last meeting for the day. You can go.”

The dwarf stands and bows. “Yes, your Worship.” She holds the office door for Michel, waits for Liren to leave the tower.

He’s halfway across the room when she says, “Not here.”

Michel spins on his heel and comes back towards her. “Are your quarters finally finished, then?”

“Yes. I thought I’d show you around.” They go up the steps side by side.

“Welcome to the heart of the Inquisition,” Aeveth says as they crest the top of the stairs, forcing cheerfulness into her voice. After so long in Skyhold, her quarters finally have her personal touches. The bed, carved deceptively simply, is a cloud of white; woven rugs of deep green and silver cover the floor. Gone are the gilded things, the armor form that used to stand in the corner. Even the armchairs by the fireplace are not the same. Only the heavy desk remains.

“You have good taste, your Worship.” Michel inspects the couch, now a three-seater, upholstered in a white leather of some sort. Expensive, most likely.

She smiles. “Thank you, Michel.”

“But you did not bring me here solely to admire your interior decorations.” He sits on the bed, testing the mattress.

“No, I didn’t, but if you could let me have a few minutes of enjoyment with you before you winnow out what ails me, I would appreciate it.” Aeveth goes to her desk, strangely empty of all the clutter that had accumulated on it, retrieves the envelope from the pocket and sets it on the reading stand, hangs her cloak on the back of her chair. 

“Aeveth, what is the matter?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment.” Aeveth crosses the distance between them and pulls Michel into a fierce hug, squeezing him hard, pushing her cheekbone against his chest. She sighs when his arms wrap around her, inhales the smell of horse and hay and leather. “You need a bath.” She squints at his neck. “And a haircut.”

He chuckles, resting his chin on her head. “If I remember correctly, you have a rather grand bathtub here. If you also have a barber hiding in here I will be most impressed.”

“I don’t, sadly. As for the bathtub, you do remember correctly, and I can draw you a bath whenever you wish. Although you have no spare clothes here.” She grins and looks up at him.

“There are worse things than being trapped with you in a room like this,” Michel deadpans.

‘“Don’t tempt me, Michel. The idea is attractive right now.”

"Right now? It has always been. You are the one who needs the break. Put a kitchen in the spare room over there and we will never have to leave. Although," and here Michel pauses to grimace, "you should not leave me with the responsibility of cooking."

"As if I am better?"

"I concede your point. I will re-strategize and present you with a better plan of attack, your Worship."

Aeveth smiles, then tucks her head beneath his chin, snuggling close.

“Do we need to be in bed?" Michel's voice is dry once again.

"No, I can't." She doesn't let go of him, however.

Michel leans down to give her a gentle kiss. "Aeveth, truly, what's bothering you?"

She sighs, biting her lip, refusing to meet his eyes. “There is something for you on my desk.”

Aeveth sits on the couch as Michel goes to her desk, trails her fingers over the smooth leather of the arm as he picks up the letter, alarm coloring his features. “This?” he asks.

“Yes. I thought it would it be best if you read it yourself.” She watches his face closely as he flips the envelope over and pulls the letter from it, the paper hissing free. His face pales; he must have read the opening paragraph. Consternation is next, followed by disbelief. Michel is more emotive now, but if he is to return to Orlais he will have to get used to keeping his face blank.

And a mask. He will need a new mask.

“She heard about what happened in Jader,” Michel says, setting the letter back on her desk. It shakes as it leaves his hand, the corner of it oscillating wildly back and forth. “My life was forfeit if she laid eyes on me again. Now she is extending this offer to me on account of my behavior. But she cannot. Taking me back would be politically disastrous. She would look weak and indecisive, ruled overmuch by emotion. Something isn't right.” Michel looks bewildered. Aeveth’s heart goes out to him.

“It’s everything you ever wanted, Michel,” Aeveth says, subdued. “Your honor restored. Reinstatement on the rolls at the Academie. The title of champion."

Michel gives her an incredulous stare. "And you are taking her at face value? When I spoke of not playing, I did not mean you should also stop thinking."

Aeveth scowls at his words, crossing her arms and legs. "It is everything you ever wanted, and a return to a place where you can be excellently utilized. I have spoken to Celene before. Not all she says has three other meanings behind it. She is impressed by the nobility of your actions, as is Briala, and probably Gaspard, grudgingly. You would be a symbol."

Michel’s eyebrows almost meet in the middle of his forehead, his eyes narrowing, darkening with his anger. “I am not interested in being a symbol. And I am excellently utilized here.”

“But you could be better utilized there.” Aeveth does not stir from her place on the couch. Instead, Michel comes stalking over to her.

“Are you trying to get rid of me?” he asks her, demanding. 

“No!” Aeveth replies, an outburst. “This decision is not mine to make. I am just trying to show you both sides. If Celene needs you, she needs you. She needed you for ten years, Michel, that kind of relationship cannot be ignored. More than anything she needs a friend beside her who can protect her from the vipers in the pit. You have been that friend.”

“I was her friend, yes,” Michel says, his eyes a stormy blue. “But I did not love her the way I love you.”

Aeveth puts a hand to her mouth, and the noise she makes is muffled. “Michel, please. This is an opportunity to do something more meaningful than just protecting the empress. You would hold her ear.”

“I have little interest in holding her ear, Aeveth. I hold your ear instead. I am needed here.”

She nods, wordless for a moment. “You are. But Michel, are you happy here?" Aeveth bulls past the indignance that erupts on his face. "I'm not talking about us. Are you happy knowing you are still disgraced in your country, without the title you fought for, the accolades you earned, without the honor that should be rightfully accorded to you?”

He only grows more angry. “You taught me there is nothing to be desired about that honor. That life was not mine when I had it. The life I have here is mine and only mine, the shame of being cast out from court fleeting when I speak to others. _You_ are here. Why would I want to return to Orlais and take up that mantle again?”

Aeveth stands; she is so close to him now. “You wouldn’t have to live a lie, Michel.”

“If I go back, it is only a matter of time before another of Celene’s, or Briala’s, or Gaspard’s enemies try to attack them through me. Gaspard's actions set a dangerous precedent, and there is no telling whether others secretly vie for the throne. And nowhere in this letter does Celene say she will acknowledge my being elf-blooded.” 

He almost spits then. Aeveth lets out a soft cry.

“I will refuse, Aeveth," he says, teeth gritted.

“It is your homeland, Michel.” She meets his glare steadily. “Remember our talk about Inquisitor Ameridan. Remember who and what he was. Orlais needs this, and Orlais needs you.” 

Michel groans, whips himself around, paces agitated over her rugs. 

“You have a duty, Michel. To your country and your people. Recall Gaspard’s words: you are the very model of a chevalier, no matter your appellation. Maker, he compared you to Ser Aveline! There is no higher compliment!" Aeveth's voice breaks. 

"Celene could change the rules for you as well, but if that happens you need to be at her side. As her champion. As a chevalier." Aeveth lets her voice drop then, pushes it commanding and chesty from her throat. "What are chevaliers supposed to do, Michel? What does your honor code say?”

“Damn you, Aeveth,” Michel grates out, and she can tell he is further incensed by the way she is playing him. “We are to uphold the honor and glory of Orlais, and serve loyally until death. _Damn_ you, Aeveth, why? Why are you arguing for this?”

She doesn’t move from her spot. “Cullen was always wary that your dual loyalties would clash eventually. I defended you to him. You are resolved now, but do not let your relationship with me affect your decision-making abilities, Michel. Consider only what Orlais needs.”

“I _am_ considering!" he almost explodes, and Aeveth sees kindling within him the flame of his warrior spirit. "I failed Orlais when I held to my word. I determined that being true to my convictions was worth more than the empire itself. This letter gives me another chance, but this decision is not mine alone.” In four long strides he closes the distance to her, takes her face into his hands, and kisses her. “As long as we do _this,_ it is not solely my decision.”

Aeveth trembles, a knot forming in her chest. She can hardly get the words out from want of breath. “I also said I would not tether you.”

“You do not. I gave my oath to the Inquisition willingly.” He kisses her again, fiery, passionate, and she almost gives in.

“Michel,” she gasps when their lips part, “you need to be free for this. If I am ever the cause for your unhappiness, I don’t know if - if -” Aeveth’s hands clench into fists as she bows her head. “You _have_ to be free.”

He freezes, and the only movement is that of his hand when he gets a knuckle beneath her chin, tilting it so his eyes meet hers. “Aeveth,” he says, low, a tone of foreboding in his voice. “Aeveth, don’t…my heart, do not...”

She touches his cheek, her fingers shaking, tears starting in her eyes. "I can't. You are too dear to me. I am too close to this right now, too selfish, too..." Her words fade, swallowed by the darkening day.

"It isn't selfish of you to want something for yourself," and Michel gathers her up into his arms, closes himself around her. "You are so often the martyr that there are times I believe you know nothing else. We have both led lives of sacrifice and duty, and the toll levied has been too high." 

Maker, he tries so hard to be strong for her. Aeveth bites down on her lip, on the verge of tears, holds him just as tightly as he is holding her.

Dusk steals into the room pad-footed, sinking surfaces into shadow, bleeding away clarity like water on ink. Softly, Aeveth says, "You do not have to decide immediately."

Michel's response is a squeeze and a whispered, "I know," and Aeveth knows from those words alone that Michel's heart is already a battlefield.

"Shall I draw a bath for you instead?" The wool of Michel's tunic darkens beneath her cheek.

"Yes. It would be a welcome distraction."

Aeveth wishes then that she had learned Ameridan’s stasis spell so that she too could be locked in time with Michel for hundreds of years. She wants to preserve the last of their happiness before it slips like sand from her hands. She wants to pretend that there is a future for her beyond inevitable sorrow and the dust of dreams.

Neither of them move from where they are standing, and Aeveth listens to the beat of Michel’s heart, strong and not at all steady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love comments, and should you leave me one, I'll love you.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild NSFW...but still NSFW.
> 
> AND NOW WITH STUNNING ART BY G. M. KAYE (and then some blatant fanservice)
> 
>  
> 
>   
>    
>  <http://g-m-kaye.tumblr.com>   
> 

Michel has always had an excellent memory.

The names and forms for all the weapons he can use; the history of Orlais and the chevaliers; nine hundred years of tactics and strategies; the Chant of Light and the Dissonant Verses; the history of the Chantry; international relations between Orlais and Ferelden, Nevarra, Antiva, Tevinter, and Rivain; the fragmented stories of the Dalish elves, their gods, Arlathan. Celene’s champion could not be less educated in those matters than she, and so Michel had learned, and Michel had memorized.

Michel watches Aeveth tend to her plants, and wishes he could forget in order to remember. More of the important things. Not Celene’s daily schedule, still ingrained in him after years of being away, but the way Aeveth handles the flowers, her fingers delicate on fragile blooms. Not how far he must walk from Celene to show proper deference, but the expression of joy on Aeveth’s face when she catches a bead of crystal grace nectar on her tongue.

Staying or going, it doesn’t matter. Michel must remember, is determined to memorize all the little details that make him fall more in love with her day by day. The smell of her skin, fresh from a bath, clean and hot, steamy and kissable. The pout she wears when she works in her laboratory, face pushed close to a beaker, eyes narrowed in concentration as she squeezes a single drop of Maker knows what into her formulation. Aeveth has attempted to teach him some rudiments of alchemy, and Michel understands it mostly, but he will never have the patience needed for it.

Aeveth’s mannerisms when she gets dressed in the mornings; Michel commits them to memory. The pattern of patchwork skin revealed when he undresses her; he burns that into his mind. When she jerks herself awake from increasingly frequent nightmares and he is there to soothe her back down - he memorizes that too, that moment when the fear fades and is replaced by relief. He must remember everything about her until he can carry her with him wherever he goes, a specter, a ghost on his heels, a voice on the edge of hearing whispering to him.

“Michel,” she breathes into his ear, and he has to memorize this too, the release hovering just out of reach, the rising whines torn from her throat, the way she throws herself unafraid at him. Aeveth will have her pleasure from him in whatever way pleases her, and Michel is happy to oblige, seizing on the few moments left to them untouched by a sense of impending doom, monochrome and tinged with poignancy.

“Michel,” she gasps, their bodies meeting, clash after clash. The sounds she makes are alluring and compressed with need, beautiful incoherence flying from her mouth as they face each other on their bed. Michel looks up at the flawless angle of her jaw, splays a hand over the small of her back and pushes, helps her get closer to him, closer and harder and faster until she arches away from him, her hair dangling, and he has to get his other hand behind her shoulders. She needs only a little more urging to reach her destination, so Michel drags his lower lip between her breasts, tasting her sweat, closes his mouth over her and sucks until her cries reach their zenith and she comes fiercely, cradled in his arms.

She looks at him then, still wracked with aftershocks, and Michel memorizes that too, locks into his mind the ferocious light in her eyes, the undeniable demand for his own release. Aeveth has never not gotten her way, not in the year or more he has known her, not in all the stories that orbit the moon of her spirit, shroud her like clouds. He is not one to argue with a will such as hers, and so Michel gives in, gives himself, catches himself in her, presses and holds until he cannot anymore.

Aeveth says _I love you_ to him afterwards, and this Michel purposely forgets so that it will be new and thrilling to him the next time he hears it.

They give up any pretense of not being together. It’s Michel who goes indiscreetly to her quarters at the end of the day, who brings with him a basket of snacks from the kitchen to last through the late evenings and the late mornings. Aeveth shatters her routine with an angry defiance, dares her advisors to say even the slightest word to her when she skips War Table meetings, spending her time watching Michel train in the ring. 

Michel has not made his decision yet, though he wrestles with it daily. The geas of his honor compels him to return, to protect the empire, to keep close those state secrets to which he is privy. Before the Inquisition, all Michel thought of was defeating Imshael. Before that, being champion was the most he thought he could attain. Aeveth is his only goal now, and as much as he wants to stay, Michel does not think a disgraced, elf-blooded ex-chevalier can ever be a respectable partner for her. Her immediacy does him no favors. Michel can lock his unrest away when she is near.

He is grateful Aeveth is considerate enough not to badger him about it. There remain only a few weeks until the mountain roads become passable, and Michel knows he needs to have his decision by then.

“Professor Kenric arrived in Skyhold yesterday,” Aeveth says to him one night in bed, her back warm against his chest. “The man is patently insane. I should have known when he lectured me about the belt buckles.”

“Belt buckles?” Michel asks, his words slipping between strands of her hair.

“Yes, of all the outlandish things.” Aeveth laces her fingers with his, kisses each knuckle of his thumb. “Only someone that crazy would brave the mountain passes this late in winter. Well, Bram is here, albeit half-frozen, which hasn’t stopped him from requesting every piece of paper we have, and all of the ink.”

“I should like to meet him,” Michel says, his lips finding Aeveth’s neck.

“Michel.”

“Yes, my heart?”

“You know, I have always wondered why it is the heart that is used as a metaphor for love, and not any other organ. There are plenty that are essential.” Her voice is light, musing. 

Michel is completely charmed by it. “I believe ‘my liver’ or ‘my brain’ is on an order of magnitude less romantic.”

“Oh, and you are romantic?” She wriggles against him; he responds with a nip to her shoulder. “You are composing songs about me, are you? Writing poetry? Commissioning portraiture? Care to show me, Michel?”

“I am not so ridiculously Orlesian as to do those things. No thank you, my liver.” He grins.

Aeveth fairly cackles. “You’re right, it’s much less romantic. Still.” She wriggles against him a second time, and Michel can practically taste her satisfaction at how he has to breathe long through his nose. “I love you, my lungs.”

“Never thought I would be called that in complete seriousness.” Her muscles shift slow and sinuous, her shoulderblades moving against his chest. He nips her again, and it’s she who has to take the long breath.

“Are you going to make good on that promise?” Her fingers tighten around his.

He chuckles. “How could I not, when under such duress? I am a man of my word, your Worship.”

“I am well aware, and my name is Aeveth.” Her hips move against his.

“Your Worship,” Michel growls into her ear, and smiles smugly when he feels the goosebumps on her skin. 

He'll remember this, too.

*** *** ***

Aeveth is not in bed when Michel wakes, floating up from discomfiting dreams of lions and mirrors and the sour taste of tarnished honor. He scrapes his tongue under his front teeth and swallows the foulness down, turns his head to see the sky. The sun is barely over the peaks, a burnt orange sliver casting flame down the sides of the mountains.

Michel sits up, running a hand through his hair, recently cut back to a proper length. He looks around and spies her on the other side of the room, huddled into a ball on her chair, a thick cloak fastened over her shoulders and a cup of tea in her hands. She pays her drink no attention. Her eyes are fixed on a single sheet of paper on the desk.

It's Celene's letter. Michel has to take deep breaths to keep the nausea from overpowering him. The moment of his decision has arrived.

He climbs from the pile of covers and stands beside the bed, centering himself, breathing deeply. He hopes to find some kind of serenity or peace as he performs his morning stretches, but as he goes through them, his movements growing more mechanical and perfunctory, Michel knows he will find nothing but abiding turmoil.

He can feel the weight of her eyes on him. If she is sending her love his way then her thoughts are arrows tipped in the chalkiness of despair. Michel is no better once finished than when he started, and as he goes into the washroom he staggers, the burden of his honor and his duty a yoke over his shoulders. He braces himself over the washbasin, pours water, and stares at his reflection.

“Michel?” Aeveth walks in, her cloak dragging across the stone. It’s his, he realizes; she is still naked underneath. “About Professor Kenric…”

Michel blows out a breath and faces her. “Yes?”

“He plans to have his paper finished by the first thaw. Wants to return to Val Royeaux then.” Her fingers tighten on the edges of his cloak. It’s made of thick, dark gray wool, the lining dyed a rare shade of blue. _Cornflower,_ Aeveth had said when she’d given it to him, _to bring out your eyes._ “Vivienne has also finished her preparations for restoring the Circles. However long it takes, it is likely she will be Grand Enchanter.”

“Does Fiona yet live?” Michel asks, and he is only half-joking. Unlike with alchemy, Michel has a much better understanding of mage politics, having had his lectures directly from Aeveth.

Aeveth’s mouth twitches. “Hale and hearty last I heard. But she is staying away from Val Royeaux. Vivienne plans to retake the White Spire. I disagree, but…” Aeveth sighs. “As much as we respect and esteem each other, we will never agree on the subject of cages.” Her eyes are earthy and black when she meets his stare, backlit by the bleak morning light. “Speaking of.”

Michel grips the washbasin table so hard that ripples form in the water. They collide with each other, fracturing. “I have said already. I gave myself willingly.”

“How hard is the leash being pulled, Michel?” Aeveth asks him softly. “How far can you drag your duty away before you cannot anymore?”

“Celene makes promises. She does not always keep them.” Michel stares down at his distorted reflection, sees only his anger. “What she proposes to do makes little sense. I assure you if I return, the pretty words she has written will remain only pretty words.”

“But what if those pretty words are backed by Gaspard’s mailed fist? Briala’s daggers at her throat?” Aeveth takes a step closer. “It will not necessarily mean political ruin for her to pardon you, Michel. You already know the different ways she can spin it.”

Aeveth’s right, he does. They both are cognizant of the logical arguments that can be made in favor of each side. That they continue to discuss it is indicative of a deeper problem, one that he does not want to confront.

“There will be little impact if I stay here,” he says.

She nods. “I am aware. Celene’s reach and desire is not strong enough to pluck you from me. But I know you, Michel. You sacrificed an empire to uphold your honor.”

Michel closes his eyes then, releases a shaking breath. “You will not ask me to stay.”

The light strengthens in the room as he waits for her to reply.

“I wanted a future with you,” Aeveth whispers finally, tears starting in her eyes, and the sight of her so upset is a knife twisting in his chest. “It’s so very simple, what I want. And yet so very complicated. No, I will not ask you to stay. I will not tug the leash the other way.”

“It isn’t a leash, Aeveth,” Michel growls.

“But it is. I know you’ve already decided, no matter how much you deny yourself. There remains only one thing.”

Michel blinks, blinks again, tries to force away the stinging sweep across his eyes, tries to calm the panic rising in his chest. “Please,” he says to her. They had been so blissfully happy last night. “Please don’t, Aeveth.”

She takes one more step, reaches up, takes his head into her hands. Michel lets her draw him down enough so that she can kiss his forehead, her lips lingering tenderly. There are tears dripping down her face.

“I release you from your oath, Michel.”

He crumples then, clawing down a ragged breath, barely keeping his feet. “Aeveth, no - what are you -”

She interrupts him. "Fulfill your duty, chevalier. I release you, Michel de Chevin, from the service of the Inquisition. All contracts and bindings are dissolved forthwith." More tears, a flood of them falling from her chin, spattering on the ground, shattering like glass. If he listens hard enough, Michel can hear something breaking.

“Aeveth…Maker, can’t you ever…” He can’t finish, not with his heart in pieces.

“Do something good, Michel. Atone, if that is what you wish. If I cannot have a life with you, then make me proud to love you.” She starts to turn away.

Michel's hand closes on her shoulder. He feels faint. "Aeveth, I’ll stay. I will."

"If you do, you violate your honor. That isn't who I fell in love with." She sobs, then holds herself together. "You must leave here. Now."

"What?" Michel says, incredulous, but then he sees the heat haze shimmering around her. His stomach drops. "Maker's breath!"

"Leave. You will not want to see me like this." Aeveth unclasps his cloak and hands it to him, her eyes already glowing. The Anchor crackles and whistles, an exultation of larks in her hand. Static dances like needles over his skin.

Aeveth turns and walks towards the balcony doors in a daze. Michel throws on his cloak and sprints for the stairs, the hairs on his arms lifting with the gathering charge in the air. The door slams shut over the sound of Aeveth screaming fire and lightning, slashing the Veil into tatters with the tempest of her emotions.

*** *** ***

The weeks pass, the weather warming gradually, but to Michel the herald of spring is just a slow march towards despondency. Aeveth helps him with his travel preparations, sending birds, coordinating the caravans, making it so his trip back to Val Royeaux will be as easy as possible. “Keep an eye on the professor,” she tells him as he escorts her from her office at the end of the day. “He gets these wild hairs and sometimes doesn’t pay attention to his surroundings.”

"The Imperial Highway isn't the wilderness," Michel says to her, holding open the door. There are already people having early dinner in the Great Hall, and he hears Aeveth's stomach rumble as she smells the food. "You didn't eat again, didn't you?"

She has the grace to look ashamed. "No. I genuinely forgot."

"Aeveth." Michel leads the way to the kitchens instead. "You can't forget. Perhaps I'll have Liren get something for you every few hours. You have to keep up your strength, especially since you have been dreaming more of late. Soon I won’t -" Michel shuts his mouth, his teeth clicking together hard enough to bite the thought in half. Not yet, he cannot think about this in a public space. He concerns himself with her instead. Aeveth has been staying up at all hours and spending more time in her laboratory again, descending into a well-worn spiral that Michel knows ends badly.

"I'll try." She follows him through the atrium. "I just forget."

He makes her promise to eat and sleep, especially when he is gone, and clears his throat when the acid threatens to come up from his stomach. There is no avoiding his leaving, so Michel has decided to confront it with practicality. He could stay with Aeveth and the Inquisition, and be happy for however long she kept it running. Afterwards, however, he doesn't know. Strategically speaking, regaining his honor and title would result in more stability for the both of them in the long-term.

Michel does his best not to think about how he might be champion for another ten years. Ten years before he could see her again, if she even would want him a decade from now. The future is all he can think about some days; when he wakes up with her, he just wants to know that the next day will be the same. That the next day and the day after that he will hear her whispered _I love you,_ and he will touch her as if she is new. She is, in a way; the body is always creating new layers of skin, and Michel must discover every inch of it for himself before he is satisfied he knows her just as well as he did the day before.

 _In ten years,_ he thinks. _In ten years, how complete of a stranger will Aeveth be?_

They take food back to her quarters, and Aeveth sets the spread on her desk as Michel removes his armor. He stands in a beam of sunlight as he does so, pulling off breastplate and pauldrons, belt and arming doublet. The sunlight warms his bare skin once his undertunic is off. He reaches over across his body to scratch an itch on his shoulder, glancing away from the glare coming off the floor.

"Sweet Maker," Aeveth breathes, reverent.

Michel pauses, then looks at her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong. Sweet Maker, you're beautiful."

He blushes. 

Aeveth shrugs out of her vest, letting it drop, and stalks towards him like a tawny-skinned desert cat. She yanks at the scarf around her neck, pops the closures on her doublet, holds his gaze captive as she advances on him.

Michel swallows with difficulty. “Aeveth, you need to eat.”

“The food will keep. You won’t.”

He grins, and she matches it. “I’m still sweaty from training.”

“We’ll take a bath.” She flings her doublet away, removes her undertunic in one swift motion, touches his stomach with sliding fingertips until both palms are in full contact with his skin. She lifts herself up on tiptoes and kisses him. 

Her stomach growls.

“About that food,” he murmurs against her lips. Her skin is very, very warm.

“Get in bed, de Chevin,” she says to him huskily. “I’m not hungry for food.”

“Yes, your Worship,” he replies, and dutifully obeys.

The bath happens later, much later. Aeveth leans against him in the tub, sated and practically purring, steam rising from his skin as she brings his hand up from the blissfully scalding water. She touches it to her lips, a blessing. She loves kissing his hands, he’s discovered.

“What are you saying?” Michel asks, half-asleep, the heat of the water leaving him boneless.

It’s a moment before she can answer. “Prayers,” she says eventually.

Michel lifts his head, surprised. “You don’t pray.”

She drops his hand back into the water and kisses him under his jaw instead. “I do now.”

“What verse?”

Aeveth shrugs, the water splashing lightly, and refreshes the glyph keeping it warm. “Whichever one says I love you.”

There is a fresh burst of steam, and Michel blames the burning in his eyes on it. He clears his throat and blinks beads of water away.

“I’ll take my vows at that chantry, then.”

*** *** ***

Aeveth rides out with him after all the official goodbyes are done and dispensed with, swinging up on Keeper and clicking at her once the bells have stopped ringing. It is normally not done for the Inquisitor to see guests down the mountain path, but no one is willing to tell Aeveth otherwise. There is enough sadness and anger churning in her, and anyone foolish enough to bring a match to the kindling deserves to be crisped to ash in the resultant conflagration.

They allow their horses to amble along once they’ve crossed the bridge, waving Vivienne and Professor Kenric ahead. Michel’s gaze is drawn inescapably to Aeveth beside him; though she is clearly tired she is still stunning, the expressiveness of her eyes always at a contrast with the angles of her cheekbones and her jaw. Her hair has grown out since the explosion and she hasn’t bothered cutting it. It blows free in the rushes of chilly wind sweeping down the mountainsides.

Michel already misses the feel of her hair between his fingers, the silken strands of it cool and slippery on his skin. Last night they had slept fitfully after they made love, waking up only to make love again, not wanting to spend more time drifting in the Fade than was necessary. Aeveth had lain limp with her head pillowed on his shoulder, still stained with him, and murmured prayers into his skin. _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ she had whispered, burning the words into his chest, her mouth the brand. It had been an easy prayer for him to learn and Michel returned the piety in kind, writing his benedictions into her with his fingertips and his mouth, the ache of his sorrow the only ink at hand.

There is nothing left to say between them. The embraces, the soft kisses in the dark, the private words; they have already been exchanged, staked down into his memory, bound indelibly so that he can revisit them for the days and months and years to come. The silence that remains is shell-shocked, stricken, full of disbelief that the moment has finally arrived. 

Aeveth stays with him as long as she dares, and Michel can almost see the cord tethering her to Skyhold growing more taut as the minutes tick by. About half a bell out she reins up abruptly, halting on a flatter part of the road which runs through stern, rocky walls. There are sparse patches of grass, and a faint trail. With a start, Michel recognizes it as the ritual site.

“Stop, Michel.”

He does so, his heart leaping with the sudden hope that Aeveth has changed her mind, that she will say the one word that will make him throw off the stones of duty and honor hanging around his neck.

“Dismount.”

It’s the wrong word. Michel dismounts, confused and feeling irrationally hurt. Of course she wouldn’t ask him to stay. Atonement, she had said. 

Aeveth dismounts as well, one hand holding one of Keeper’s reins. She kisses the mare on the nose, and sunlight glitters off the tears in her eyes.

“Aeveth?” Michel asks, concerned.

She shakes her head. “I have been thinking about what to say to you this whole time. Something official and eloquent. But my mind is so frazzled.” She worries at her hands. “I - “

Aeveth cuts herself off, then turns to Keeper, hugging her. “My best girl,” she whispers, “it’s time.”

“Time for what, Aeveth?” He is still confused.

“I have nothing to give you,” Aeveth says, and at that Michel almost protests. She is not the one who should be giving. “No token of my gratitude or anything to show my favor. I’ve thought about what I could give you to remember me. There isn’t anything. But there is someone.”

Aeveth reaches out and draws him near, lifts his hand and kisses the back of it. Then she flips his hand on its side and places Keeper’s reins against his palm.

Michel’s eyes widen, and the ground falls out from under his feet. “No,” he breathes, his voice leaving him.

“She likes you. More than likes you. She’ll keep you safe, if you do the same to her.” Aeveth is crying now, and Michel curses himself for being the cause of it. “We’ve discussed it, she and I. She’ll go with you. You need her more than I do.”

“Aeveth,” he says, hoarse. “I can’t.”

“I’m not giving her to you!” she cries, and Michel has to close his hand around Keeper’s reins as she tosses her head and sidesteps. “She’s a loan. I’m letting you keep her for now. But she’s mine, and you’ll need to bring her back to me.”

Michel is speechless, his body a series of chills sheeting over him from head to toe. He finds he is breathing heavily, as if he has just run several miles at top speed.

“I love you,” Aeveth says then, desperate. “When she's returned you had better be with her.” Aeveth grasps the reins of Michel’s horse, puts her back to him, steps towards Keeper and places her cheek against the side of her blaze. 

The mare grumbles out a whicker. “Keeper, my love, my darling girl,” Aeveth sobs, her voice breaking. “Keeper of my heart. Take care of him.”

Michel laughs at the pun despite himself. 

Aeveth smiles weakly and sniffles. “You didn’t think I’d let that go, did you? I’ve been waiting to use it.”

“Not at all, my liver,” he says, sliding a hand under the saddle to adjust the length of the stirrups.

It’s Aeveth’s turn to laugh. She dashes away her tears and watches him make his adjustments before he mounts up. “You’d better write me, Michel, or I will be cross.”

“Does this mean you’ll pay me a personal visit if I don’t?” He pats Keeper’s neck, trying to stay dry-eyed.

She kisses his knee above his riding boot, leans into him as he cradles the side of her face. “Yes.”

“I suppose I’m not writing you, then.” He smiles at her glare. “I’ll write Ser Briony, if that works.”

Aeveth covers her eyes, and Michel can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying. When she regains the ability to look at him he says, “Thank you.”

“Don’t,” Aeveth says, choking up again. “ _Don’t._ Just go. I love you, Michel. _Go._ I can’t take this anymore.” She clicks to Keeper to get her moving.

Michel twists in the saddle and holds out his hand. She grasps it briefly as she digs the heel of her palm over her eyes, but then Keeper carries him away, and their fingertips are left reaching for each other. “I love you too,” he tells her, and Maker, those four words are not enough to convey the depth of his emotions. He loves her the way the ocean loves the shore, loves her like it’s written in the stars. Michel loves her so much he’s afraid of it. “I’ll bring her back. I swear it on my honor.”

Aeveth nods, swallowing, and Michel shifts his weight forward, asking for a trot, then a canter. Keeper responds familiar and easy to him after all their time together. As he rides Michel fixes his gaze firmly ahead. There is a bend in the road ahead that, when taken, will hide Aeveth and Skyhold behind him. He looks back right before Keeper goes around it, wanting to catch one last glimpse of her.

Aeveth raises a hand, and waves farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are love, please feel free to leave me some!
> 
> (Catch the little nod to Transistor at the end?)


	22. Chapter 22

Aeveth finds a remote, secluded corner in the gardens of the Winter Palace, and it is here she tucks herself away for a just a moment. She needs the peace and calm to gather herself, array her thoughts until they resemble order. Between the Exalted Council and the ache of the Anchor in her hand, not to mention the dead Qunari they had found and the active eluvians throughout the palace, there is much to sift through.

Too much. Aeveth cannot grasp the wooly strands of her thoughts long enough to spin them into thread, and from then into yarn. It’s too much, too much, and though she won’t say anything she knows she is frayed beyond repair. The job at which she excels has finally worn her down, ground her into a fine powder. All she needs now is the Maker’s breath to carry her to his side.

There won’t be; Aeveth does not believe in the Maker, and hasn’t since she was a little girl praying for succor in the Circle, laid out on a table with manacles on her wrists and ankles. They had ratcheted them down as far as they could and still the cuffs gave up inches of room. If there was a Maker, he would have struck the enchanters and templars down alike, turned them into columns of ash for using such draconian measures on a tiny girl just to let some blood. Or so Aeveth had believed. It hadn’t happened, and so Aeveth let her faith lapse.

And then she had become the Herald of Andraste. Deep inside, Aeveth feels a smug, vindicated gleam knowing she represents nothing but illusions.

Illusions, so many of them, so many angles to find, to approach the situation. Aeveth sighs, and it sounds like a sob. She puts her face in her hands and takes deep, cleansing breaths until she can center herself and regain her serenity. All she wants is a break. A small one, long enough for her to rest and get back on her feet. A week in Val Royeaux, or perhaps two so that she can sneak in amongst the bolts of cloth in Thierry's grand new salon, and lose herself to the sensuality of satin and silk. A week in Val Royeaux to visit Cassandra and Professor Kenric, if he isn't out adventuring. A week in Val Royeaux to see the rededicated White Spire.

Aeveth does not include Michel in her assessment, because a week is not long enough for the two of them, and she can't handle the disappointment.

She digs the fingers of her right hand into her temple, then reaches into her dress uniform and pulls out a small sheet of paper, well-creased, rumpled from being carried everywhere. It's Michel's latest letter, dated several weeks back. Aeveth unfolds it and reads it for the umpteenth time, her eyes drifting over the bold, regimented strokes of his handwriting, not really seeing the words. She has already committed them to memory. _My heart,_ he has written, _neither Gaspard nor Celene will be present at the Council, and I cannot attach myself to the Divine's guard. My penance continues. I am sorry this letter is so short, but I have little trust for messengers these days. You are my blood and my endocrine system and both of my kidneys. Please send my love to Ser Briony._

She stares a little longer at the letter before putting it away. Aeveth wishes Michel were at the Winter Palace, that he could put his mind together with all her other friends to help her solve the problems. She isn't sure how much that would help, but she knows that even having his silent presence behind her would be enough to mute the incessant buzz at the edges of her consciousness.

“There you are,” Cullen’s voice breaks in, and Aeveth looks up to find him standing before her, smiling fondly. “I’ve found something I think may help you, at least a little.”

Aeveth braces her hands on her knees and heaves herself to her feet. “A very large hip flask of maaras-lok?”

Cullen snorts. “That isn’t the help I was thinking of, Aeveth.”

He offers his arm, and Aeveth takes it. She knows he hasn’t done it out of any remaining romantic sentiment; since Michel’s departure a year prior, Cullen has been perfectly respectful. No, he’s given her support because he has seen her collapsing with green lightning around her hand, felt the exhaustion reverberating through her body as he helped her up. He’s given her support because he doesn’t think Aeveth can make it all the way across the palace grounds.

Cullen is right. She can't.

“It might help with the talks,” Aeveth says, leaning hard on him. She feels the muscles of his arm cording out as he holds her weight. “I don’t know what’s gotten into Bann Teagan, but his constant ranting is enough to test a sister’s patience. I am not sure how Cassandra has not punched him in the face and told him to deal with it.”

“I’ll wager she’s thought of it plenty.” Cullen guides her gently across the parterre in the central garden. Aeveth would wave to Varric, but he’s sniping at his seneschal. “I had thought our issues with Ferelden resolved.”

“It seems our ideas of resolved are not their ideas of resolved. I knew Alistair rolled over too easily with Caer Bronach.”

“King Alistair,” Cullen mutters.

“Pardon me?” Aeveth glares.

“Nothing,” Cullen says. “I didn’t think that the terms we agreed upon two years ago were subject to change so soon. Our holdings have not expanded in Ferelden.”

“Truly, was that two years ago?”

“More, now that I think of it.”

Aeveth sighs. “Anora and Alistair may have finally gotten tired of our relationship with Orlais being as favorable as it is. We did draw down our forces in the Dales, after all.”

“King Alistair,” Cullen mumbles.

“I didn’t realize you were such a loyalist, Cullen,” Aeveth says, perhaps a bit too tartly.

Cullen coughs, then gestures to something ahead of them. “There it is!”

“There what is?”

Cullen helps her to a bench, then reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small paper bag. He hands it over, then walks towards a large mabari lying in the shade. Aeveth gasps, then opens the bag. There are dog treats inside.

“Cullen, where did you find the dog?” Aeveth exclaims when they return. She holds out a hand for the dog to sniff, and receives a lick. Delighted, Aeveth pets him on the head, scratches him behind his ears. “A mabari here in Halamshiral?”

“He had been abandoned. I couldn’t _not_ take him in.” Cullen sits down beside her, smiling. “We’re the only Fereldans here, after all.”

She leans down and gives the dog a kiss on his muzzle. “He’s wonderful already. Thank you. I didn’t think I needed this, but I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

His voice is soft when he speaks. “It’s the one thing I do know how to do, when it comes to you.”

Aeveth closes her eyes, her hands stilling on the mabari’s fur. She takes deep, even breaths.

“You must be thinking of him all the time.”

Aeveth resumes petting the dog. “It’s impossible not to, here.”

“I heard about new reforms in the Academie. His doing?”

She shrugs. “Gaspard’s doing, though if Michel had a hand in it, I would not be surprised.” Like the University, commoners could now be accepted into the Academie if sponsored by a noble. _Honor runs in the blood of all Orlesians,_ Gaspard had decreed. _Let all who want to defend Orlais receive the best training._ Whether or not the initiation has been changed as well, Aeveth doesn't know. There are other changes, small adjustments made to taxation and inheritance laws, and those Aeveth knows are definitely a result of Michel and Briala's pressure. 

Cullen nods. "Is he content to be back in Val Royeaux?"

Aeveth does not take insult at the question knowing it comes from genuine concern. "He is fulfilling the obligations of his duty, and contentment has nothing to do with it."

He grunts. "You and your separation of emotions."

"It isn't as if you don't know how to do it yourself, Cullen." A pointed look.

"How is his recovery?" Cullen asks, changing the subject.

"I assume he is fully healthy again and has been for some time," Aeveth replies, "otherwise I would have heard something. Vivienne was overseeing his care. As she never mucks anything up, I'm sure he's back to work."

The mabari lays his head in her lap, and Aeveth, completely charmed, gives him a treat from the bag. "No," she says as the dog sniffs at the rest of the treats, "one at a time. And only if your new master says so."

"He can have all the treats," Cullen says immediately.

"You're going to spoil him!" Aeveth scolds him. "Too many treats and you won't be in fighting condition." The dog barks softly, and it is almost as if he is nodding his agreement. "I can see that between the two of you, you're the one with the sense."

"Aeveth," Cullen says, wounded. "I have more sense than the dog."

"Debatable," she throws back, kissing the dog on his head. "Mabari are more intelligent than other dogs, aren't they? About as smart as a human in special cases - and you," Aeveth coos, dropping her voice into the tone she uses to flatter Keeper, "you are so special. Yes you are. You would have to be, because Cullen needs all the help he can get."

"Aeveth," Cullen says again, pained. "Really, must you go on?"

The dog barks, tail wagging, and Aeveth laughs, her exhaustion easing. "It seems he agrees. Does he have a name?" 

"Not yet." Cullen picks up the bag, gives the dog a treat. "I've been calling him Ser for right now. I'm sure his name will come to me eventually."

Ser turns around, presenting his backside, and Aeveth obliges, scratching roughly at the spot right by the base of his tail. "Might I call you Friend?" she says as she does so. "Cullen ought to as well. He should have a best friend, one who will stay with him."

Cullen rubs at his forehead and sighs. "I think you've won this bout, and won, and won," he says.

"All right, I'll show you mercy." Ser cranes his head around, and Aeveth tosses him a treat. It disappears with a snap into his mouth. "What a good boy!"

"You said one who will stay." Cullen shifts position, planting his elbows on his knees, and gives her a searching look. "Are you seriously considering...?"

Ser lays his head on her leg again, and Aeveth runs her thumb over the stripe of white on his face. "Varric gave me a lovely offer. And the key to the boom-chain that runs across the harbor. I wonder what he's trying to insinuate."

"It's _Kirkwall._ Do you really want to live there? It's a shithole. Not my words, but nevertheless true."

"I can't go back to Ostwick. There's nothing for me. At least in Kirkwall I will have Varric. I've already asked Bull and Sera to come with me." She sighs, then draws in a slow breath. "And I am sure there will be plenty of people who need help there. Mages especially."

Cullen's face is full of concern as he speaks. "But the incidence of blood mages and abominations is still abnormally high. Maker's breath, Meredith was a statue in the Gallows until this past year. You'd live that close to history?"

"Cullen," Aeveth says quietly, "don't you think that's why I should be there? Besides, the Anchor keeps many of the demons at bay."

He is silent for long moments, and Aeveth knows he is thinking about the decade he spent there. "If that is what you've determined is best, then I'll say no more."

"Thank you. There is a chance I will find it unbearable, and flee to Tevinter instead."

"Maker's breath," Cullen groans. "What mercy, Aeveth?"

She laughs lightly, resting her head against his shoulder. Cullen settles a broad hand on Ser's head, and the three of them sit in peace for some time, the scent of roses wafting faint on the breeze.

"You know," Aeveth says eventually. "Whatever it is you plan to do after this is over, I will help with. In any capacity I can. It won't be goodbye forever. We've too much between us for that."

"Likewise," Cullen says, voice tender.

"I'm tired," she whispers, and she feels Cullen's head bow at her admission.

"Then rest," he says.

*** *** ***

"All right, all right," Aeveth laughs brightly. "On a scale of one to ten, how badly do you want to break Teagan's back over your knee?"

Dorian snickers. "That would be a sight, our dear Divine lifting a grown man over her head with her bare hands, and slamming him down as if he is a stick to be broken."

"He is a stick," Aeveth agrees. "Or has a stick right up his ass. If you make an example out of him, Cassandra, I guarantee that you will have peace for at least a year."

"And an offer of marriage from the Black Divine himself," Dorian says, laughing. "That would be something. A mending of the rift between the Chantries."

Cassandra looks as if she is having a difficult time deciding between laughing and scowling, and settles instead for laughing into her hands as she puts them over her face. "A scale of one to ten is too narrow," she says, words muffled. "A scale of one to twenty would be more accurate. One to fifty. A hundred! The man is completely insufferable! A punch to the face would serve only to whet the appetite."

"As inadvisable as it is to punch a dignitary," Aeveth says, "I completely understand. Perhaps you should challenge him to a duel. We're in the right country for it."

Cassandra laughs, the sound low and chesty. "Maker. I am getting too old for that."

"Oh, I doubt it," Aeveth replies, teasing. "Look at Thom. Well over forty and still can deal a hit that will leave one laid out flat. You could do that, Cassandra. I've heard tales of you, Most Holy. Unlock that rage. Take up your greatsword."

"Unlock that rage far from me, if you would," Dorian says, grinning.

"If I unlock that rage I might never wrestle it back down again." Cassandra sighs. "We must speak of something else. Something more pleasant. A duel, you said? Shall I tell you of Ser Michel's duel this past Satinalia?"

"Oh, storytime!" Dorian exclaims, and Aeveth can practically see his ears perking. "I will pretend to be terribly interested so that Aeveth does not have to embarrass herself. Do go on, Cassandra. I will want all of the details. Every last sordid detail, if you would. The proud way he challenged the chevalier. The brutality of his blows as he fought with every ounce of his strength and honor, cutting his enemy down with Maker-given elegance. The sparkle of the sun on his hair and the chorus of triumphant birdsong that erupted around him once he vanquished his foe, standing with sword raised as the winds of the Maker's favor swept around him, carrying his irresistible manly scent to the noses of fainting ladies and gentlemen. This is Orlais, after all."

Cassandra's laughter cracks the air; Aeveth clutches her stomach, helpless with mirth. "Dorian, you're awful!"

"You've changed to a different blond paramour; of course I must comment." Aeveth only laughs further, half-falling onto him. "Now if you would kindly shut up, I would like to have the tale from Cassandra."

Aeveth waves Cassandra on, unable to speak for laughter and embarrassment.

"There was no sunlight, Dorian. It was an evening affair. And he was magnificent." Cassandra clasps her hands. "You would have been proud, Aeveth. He put on a show that was spoken of for days afterwards. His form was impeccable. His focus is unwavering. He fights with the style of the chevaliers, and yet possesses an instinct for efficiency. He does not let idle talk distract him. Even his pivots are perfect. There are many who go through the Academie’s training learning only the bare minimum. To the other chevalier’s chagrin, Ser Michel was not one of them."

"That's all well and good, Cassandra," Dorian says, "but where is all the fountaining blood? The insults tossed?"

Aeveth rolls her eyes. "What sparked the duel to begin with?"

"The other one - I cannot remember his name. Thibault? Teabag? Ugh. A minor noble connected to the Lydes. He criticized the new Academie entrance policy and the latest paper on Ameridan within earshot of both Gaspard and Celene.”

“A colossally idiotic move.” Aeveth shakes her head and sighs. “Retribution was swift, I expect.”

“I do not know what possessed him to say those things. A death wish, I presume. He went on to insult Ambassador Briala and the elves before Ser Michel challenged him to a duel.”

Aeveth stares, aghast. “Was the man drunk?”

“Not so far into his cups that he didn’t know what he was doing. In the end, Ser Michel took only superficial wounds, and now there is one less squabbling, wastrel noble to contend with in Val Firmin.” Cassandra frowns and shifts, plucking at her robes.

“And rather a lot more speculative fiction, I’ll hazard,” Dorian says, grinning. “It is about time for another Randy Dowager issue. Say what you will about the contents, but it always has a timely...release.”

Aeveth giggles loudly. “To our great satisfaction, always.”

“Are you talking about the readership or the magazine?” Cassandra asks, laughing.

Dorian cackles. “How could it not be both?”

“You will want to get the next issue.” Cassandra’s lips curve into a smile, and her dark eyes twinkle. “It will be of much interest to you, Aeveth.”

“How do you know?” Aeveth asks, just as Dorian gasps dramatically and tsks.

“You have an advance copy? Divine Victoria gets advance copies of The Randy Dowager Quarterly?” This time when Dorian laughs it’s open-mouthed. He slaps his knee, guffawing. “What do you tell them, they’re doing the Maker’s work?”

Cassandra’s laugh comes dangerously close to a titter. “Divine Victoria does not read the Randy Dowager. It is Sister Roxanne.”

Dorian shoots Aeveth a wicked look. “Cassandra, do you think you could get that advance copy signed and sent to the Inquisition?”

There is no response as all three promptly fall into gales of laughter.

*** *** ***

There is no more laughter, and there hasn’t been ever since Aeveth began chasing the Viddasala from mirror to mirror. There is no more laughter, not between Dorian’s frantic cries and Sera’s frightened, angry shouts every time Aeveth is slammed into the ground with the power of the mark. There is no more laughter because Aeveth’s throat is too raw and damaged from all the screaming she has done.

The Anchor. The mark. If Aeveth never sees that color of green again it will be too soon. The mark has hurt her so often that just glimpsing that sickly shade of pea makes her feel ill. The mark, the one Solas took, the one that she had inadvertently prevented from taking over a year ago. If she had it at her disposal right now, Aeveth thinks, she would drink a whole glass of the full-strength magebane. She would drink two glasses, three, would squeeze her eyes shut and will herself not to gag at the overly sweet taste, choke down the sandpaper dryness stealing moisture from her throat, drink until she shook herself to the floor and could not drink any more. Aeveth would drink the damn magebane and sever herself from the Fade, would drink it and grin at Solas’ expression. Aeveth would drink the fucking magebane for spite, bear whatever pain the Anchor threw at her, just so her once-beloved mentor could grind his teeth to smooth, flat planes.

It isn’t as if she hadn’t known who Solas was. Pride was the meaning of his name, and never had it been more apparent than in the many floor-to-ceiling frescoes all rendered in his hand. That he was Fen’Harel had been no mystery by the time Aeveth stumbled through the last eluvian and nearly ran headfirst into the petrified Qunari. _I suspect you have questions,_ Solas had said, and Aeveth had almost laughed then. Almost.

 _I really don’t,_ she told him instead, the air rasping through her swollen, injured throat, right before the Anchor flared and she crumpled to her knees. Aeveth had a brief moment of satisfaction upon seeing Solas lean forward a bit to hear her. Then his eyes had flashed white, quieting the Anchor.

He hadn’t bothered to heal her throat, though. Asshole.

Aeveth pushes herself up to her hands and knees, spitting minute grains of dirt from the corner of her mouth. Hand and knees now, she thinks, that’s going to take getting used to. The giant eluvian Solas has used is gray and dark, inactive, and even if Aeveth wanted to pursue him, if she had any strength left to do anything but keep herself together, she couldn’t. The Anchor is gone, and with it her entire lower arm.

She had walked with him for a time while the Anchor was silenced, listened to the truth of the elven gods. Aeveth had been so tired that she could not even react properly to the knowledge that Solas was the creator of the Veil. She had been so tired that when he told her what he must do, she merely blinked and asked why. Then came the truth of Corypheus, and she had almost laughed again when he said he had a plan.

 _Solas_ , Aeveth had wheezed then, _your plans are shitty._

Slowly, she gets to her feet, rocking back and forth while attempting to balance, shaking with the effort of it. Aeveth turns and stumbles towards the eluvian that had been behind her. She wonders where Cassandra and Dorian and Sera are, why they haven’t come through. It is possible, she thinks while hanging onto the Viddasala herself, that only she had been allowed through. Aeveth doesn’t know. Magic to Solas is thought manifested, but more powerfully than the visualization she and other mages must go through in order to cast. If Solas only wanted her to pass, then that was that.

As she walks Aeveth takes stock of her wounds. It is one of the only things she can focus on in her present state. If she thinks too much about her arm - if she immerses herself in the memory of it dripping away, of flesh and blood cauterizing, of the smell of her own cooked meat, of her arm disintegrating before her eyes - she will go into shock. Aeveth must be more mentally strong than she has ever been, more focused on walling off that part of her which wants to lay on the ground and die. She could right now, she’s sure. There is so much about her that is broken or hurting. Several ribs, most likely, probably some wrist bones. Her kneecaps have fluid over and under them from hitting the ground so many times. There are burns shiny with lymph on what remains of her left arm, all the way up to her shoulder and neck. Her cheek stings where dirt has gotten into a scrape. Blood oozes from the partially-healed spear wound in her side; her armor had softened the blow, but did not prevent the tip from goring her impressively. There is enough hurt that she feels it all over.

 _I understand,_ she had told Solas. _You said yourself years ago. You and I are alike. I would sacrifice anything for my people._

Solas had inclined his head. _I know you are a kindred spirit. I don't think you'll forgive me this. But to restore my people, I must end you._ He opened his mouth to say more.

 _Shut up,_ hahren, Aeveth said as mockingly as she could. _You do not get to speak to me that way. I will prove to you that we are worth saving, that you are misguided in your deeds. But not out of sentiment for what we had. For the innocents whose lives you would destroy._

 _That is fair. You were always too kind,_ da’len, he had replied.

Not anymore, and not towards him. Aeveth hurls herself from statue to statue until she reaches the mirror. She no longer cares if she is flat on her face when she comes out the other side, if she even makes it all the way through. The silver chill of the eluvian washes over her as she topples towards it. Her left shoulder makes contact with unyielding stone first. Then the side of her head. 

It bounces. Aeveth has not bothered bracing herself.

“Aeveth!” she hears Dorian shout.

If she is conscious during the grueling trip back to the Winter Palace then Aeveth doesn’t realize it. Things are blurry. She throws up. Her eyelids are pried apart. She has no arm, did they notice? Solas took it. She has no arm, but it feels like she still has it. She throws up again. There is nothing in her stomach.

And then healing magic washes over her, restoring clarity to her thoughts.

“Vivienne,” Aeveth croaks. Her throat is slightly better. “I must…”

“Don’t speak, darling.” Vivienne’s magic washes through her again, putting a few more things to rights. “You are quite injured.”

“I realize.” Aeveth shivers as yet another healing spell settles on her. She is half-lying on the floor of a hallway in the Winter Palace, and someone is supporting her head and shoulders. Aeveth knows it isn’t Michel, but she wishes for it anyway. “Take me to the Exalted Council. Reconvene them. I am ending this now.”

“Aeveth,” Josephine says, and she cannot keep the panic from her voice. Aeveth can hear it, clear as a ringing bell. “Take some rest first. The Council can wait longer, especially once they receive news of your condition.”

Her condition. Josephine is diplomatic even now, reducing the abject horror and worry in her friends' faces to two neutered words.

Another healing spell. Aeveth groans and sits up, waits for the stars to clear from her eyes. “I’m done with this. Fuck my condition, and fuck the Council. They wanted me. Now they will have me. Cassandra?”

“I will call them back to the table, Inquisitor.”

“Good. Leliana, get the book. I am going to need it.” No time for weakness now. “Cullen. Thom. Help me up, get me to the meeting chamber. Josephine, they have exactly as long as it takes for me to get there to show up. Or else.”

For once, everything coordinates perfectly. Cullen and Thom take turns mostly carrying her to the meeting chamber, and Leliana appears with the tome as soon as they step foot in the door. All of the dignitaries are in their places by the time Aeveth takes the book and tucks it under her arm, pushing Cullen and Thom away. This she needs to do by herself.

She hobbles down the aisle, aware of how conspicuous her missing arm is. In the trip from the mirror to the hall, the wound has reopened, and Aeveth can feel every drop of blood as it leaves the stump. “You are shocked at my appearance,” she declares, pitching her voice so that it can be heard. “If you are insulted by it, then I have only one thing to say to you.” Aeveth looks around then, scans the gathering crowd of muttering Orlesians.

“Fuck you,” she says simply.

“When I first arrived at the Winter Palace I was given a set of conditions by both Orlais and Ferelden. Give the Inquisition over to the Chantry, or fold it into the armies of Orlais. Disband the Inquisition, and rid the world of the lingering threat on Ferelden’s doorstep. How long would the Inquisition remain true to its mission under my command? What use is the Inquisition in these times? What purpose does it serve?

“Ladies and gentlemen, and I assure you those honorifics are more charitable than all of you deserve right now, the Inquisition has once again stopped a threat that would have torn your lands apart. Ferelden and Orlais both. The Qunari would have set off explosives in your major cities and turned your countries into a series of smoking craters. In true fashion, however, I expect no gratitude from you. Only the whining prattle of men and women who have not learned in their bones the meaning of sacrifice.”

Aeveth steps forward, calculated and deliberate. Though she is on the floor in front of the raised dais, she aims to loom larger than anything in the room. 

“Would you like to understand a little of my sacrifice? Perhaps you wonder how easy it is to occupy this position. Perhaps you have forgotten how the Inquisition has stopped threat after threat to the safety of your nations, all while staying neutral, all while being fair with its power. Perhaps you have forgotten that two years ago we negotiated treaties and pacts and had the Inquisition recognized as sovereign. Moving against us this way could be interpreted as an act of war, to which I could respond with steel and flame. But I have not, and will not.”

Her voice drips with derision when she speaks next. “I understand the burden of rule is heavy when it comes to overseeing a city or a bannorn. I am but the head of an organization with no home, beset by wolves in sheep’s clothing on either side. Surely I cannot fathom the threat I pose.

“I stand before you, and in good faith, I challenge you to view my sacrifice. I have walked the Fade twice for you. I have been at the mercy of a darkspawn magister from legend for you. I have saved the Grey Wardens for you. I have kept Orlais from tearing itself apart, all for you. Any problem or issue that came to the Inquisition, I did my best to solve. I closed the Breach not once, but twice. And now I have saved you all again from the Qunari invasion which you knew - you _knew_ \- was coming. I have saved you from your own blindness and stupidity.

“Blood!” Aeveth shouts then, her voice ringing off polished marble. A murmur goes through the crowd. “My blood! You have my blood. The sheer gall of you trying to dictate what should happen to the people under my protection makes me sick.” Aeveth holds out her right arm, and the book drops to the floor with a resounding, echoing thud. She steps over it as she walks to the dais, and touches her right hand to the stump of her arm. Blood gathers on her fingertips.

“You may have my blood,” she growls, and flicks it onto Teagan’s face. He jerks back so hard he almost falls from his chair. The crowd gasps, throats working in shocked cries. “You may taste my sacrifice,” she snarls at Cyril, and flicks her blood into his face as well. “But you may not take my Inquisition. From henceforth the Inquisition is disbanded. Whatever problems arise next, whatever peril faces your nations and threatens them, they are no longer my concern.”

Aeveth spins on her heel and begins limping out of the hall. The crowd parts before her, stunned and afraid.

“Good luck finding your next savior.”


	23. Chapter 23

“Did my package for Bull arrive?”

Aeveth touches her finger to the communication jewel. "It did yesterday. Do you want me to give it to him?"

"Please. I cannot handle the suspense."

"I'm smiling at you right now, Dorian. Bull is out training with Krem, but should be back in a few hours. Will you be around then?"

"I will have to consult my assistant. Ah yes, that's right, I don't have one. It is myself. Assistant Dorian, will you be in meetings later this afternoon? I am cocking my head in a quizzical fashion, now. No, Master Dorian, you may spare a few minutes to speak to your amatus. Assistant Dorian, please mark me as busy in two hours' time. A determined nod. Yes, Master Dorian."

"That's quite the assistant you have there," Aeveth remarks. "Oh yes, I'm sorry. I am grinning from ear to ear at your antics."

"Good," Dorian says, prim. "You had better be."

“My lady?” Liren pokes her head into the doorway of Aeveth’s office. "The linen service is here, as well as the florist."

Aeveth sighs, then relays the information to Dorian. "I'm afraid I have to oversee preparations. Thierry has been here for a week with a small army of assistants. Josephine arrived a few days ago, and Leliana came in early this morning."

"Did she swoop in with her crows and a herd of nugs at her feet?" Dorian asks.

"Probably," Aeveth says, laughing. "I was asleep at the time. I did see her at breakfast. She looks well."

"Of course she does. I keep meaning to ask her about her skincare regimen. She is flawless. The blood of virgins, most likely."

"Dorian, jealousy is a bad look on you."

"Nonsense Aeveth, everything is a good look on me.” 

Aeveth laughs again. "Oh Dorian, I wish you could be here."

She hears his sigh, loud and gusty. "I do too. More than you know."

"Oh," she avers, "I know. Talk to you soon?" Aeveth reaches for the heavy hourglass on her desk, slides it across the blotter. She touches the end of her stump to the jewel. "I'm holding the glass. Ready? In three, two, one." She flips it over.

"Soon," Dorian says, and the jewel goes dark.

Aeveth pushes back from her desk and stretches, listening to her knees pop. The cold damp of a Kirkwall winter is unkind to her body, making the remnants of all her injuries ache. She closes her eyes and sends her consciousness down into the foundation of the estate, quests for the power locus beneath it which keeps her glyphs from fading away. The network of magic is large and complicated, built with layer upon layer of glyphs and creation magic learned from studying Skyhold. Normally it would take at a minimum several mages and many vials of lyrium to maintain the magic that thrums day and night, but Dagna has been successful in smithing a version of the _somnaborium_ , and it lies buried dozens of feet below her.

She finds the orb and sends a burst of power running through the lines of the glyph beneath her office. Instantly, she feels more refreshed, her pain fading. Beneath her room and every single room in the estate is tethered a glyph of restoration and peace, a design of her making which she keeps secret. The glyphs are one and all connected to a much larger circle which encompasses the entire estate, and inscribed within that are runes for peace and serenity, healing and rest. Etched in between all the complicated markings are wards for repelling demons.

In short, Aeveth has recreated her sanctuary for herself, and that is what she has named the estate: Sanctuary. A place to call home for however long the stay. A place where Aeveth can stretch sheltering wings over all who walk within the borders of its magic.

Aeveth covers her yawn with her hand, then begins making her way down to the front courtyard, holding her skirts as she descends the stairs. Marcher fashion is practical, favoring breeches and jackets over dresses, but Aeveth prefers the ease over the practicality. It is easier to step into a dress and hook the closures together, easier to pop her head through the neckhole of one of Thierry's designs and let the heavy, drapey material fall around her body.

Rylen is already at the front doors coordinating the delivery. "Rylen," Aeveth calls out, her slippered feet light on the stairs. "How do they look?"

"Quite satisfactory," he responds, then gives quick, succinct directions on where the linens may be stored prior to the party.

"And the flowers?"

"Not my purview, my lady." Rylen chuckles, a bass rasp. "Sera and Dagna have already run off with them."

"Maferath's wrinkly ballsack," Aeveth mutters. "Let us hope that whenever I find them, the flowers do not explode or sing drinking songs."

"In all honesty, my lady, I would prefer the drinking songs." Rylen grins.

"I would too. I haven't seen you since you returned from Starkhaven, Rylen, why didn't you come up to my office? Do you have any newcomers?"

Rylen folds his arms across his chest and shrugs. "I was busy, my lady. I did find a former templar though, and I've brought him back with me."

Busy. Rylen distills everything down to blase, but Aeveth has come to expect it out of Cullen's second-in-command. "Busy for two whole days? Is he well outfitted here, Rylen?"

"He is. I've set him in the Tower with Gavin, where he has decided to meditate and take vigil. He should be ready when Cullen arrives."

"Excellent. I won't bother him, then." Aeveth lays her hand on Rylen's shoulder and begins to say something, but her eyes are drawn to movement at the gates. Excitement strikes a ringing note in her body. "If you'll excuse me, Rylen, I see we have more guests."

Aeveth tries to be dignified as she walks briskly across the courtyard, but by the time she reaches the gates and hauls one of the wrought iron leaves open, she is practically running. "Taka!" she shouts, and launches herself straight into her cousin's arms. His hug is fierce, his laughter a welcome sound, a balm to her heart. "Taka, you made it!"

He gives her a twirl before he sets her down, his brown eyes bright with warmth. Aeveth shrieks the way she used to when they were children, when Taka used to grab her under the armpits and spin them around until they both thumped to the ground in a cloud of dust. 

"I've missed you too, cousin. I'm glad to be here."

"I'm glad you all made it," Aeveth says, nodding to Carver and Rith. She turns to Thom. "And you. Look at you, Thom!"

Thom's laughter is hearty as he folds Aeveth into a hug. "Only the best for this party, Aeveth."

"That means he trimmed his beard and polished his armor," Rith says dryly, and Aeveth shakes his outstretched hand. "And took a bath last week."

"At least he does not smell of horse," Aeveth says, and giggles. "Come on in, all of you. Thom, Sera just ran off with Dagna, but if you follow the trail of flower petals I bet you'll be able to find her. Taka, Carver, Rith, if you talk to Rylen he can get you all situated into rooms. Rooms with bathtubs," she says, eyeballing Thom. "If Rylen isn't around, then find Liren. She's the dwarf who - "

"I remember," Carver says. "Pushy as all get-out. Former Carta?"

"Naturally," Aeveth replies. "In, in. Welcome to Sanctuary!"

Aeveth herds the wardens towards the double doors of the mansion, then leaves them to unwind in Rylen’s care. Aeveth smiles to herself when Rith drifts off towards the kitchen; she then plucks up a thick cloak from a hook in the foyer and swings it over her shoulders, deciding to walk a circuit of the estate.

The mage apprentices she has taken in greet her as she strolls through the gardens on the way to the stables. She stops to check in on them, correcting spellcasting gestures, looking over alchemical formulas. "You'll need to harvest the young dawn lotus for this," she tells one of the apprentices, a young woman she had discovered in Darktown two months ago. "Be more thorough in your calculations. Grand Enchanter Vivienne will have my head if I send her less than the best. Have you completed your other duties today?"

"Yes, messere," the girl says, and Aeveth smiles.

"Good. I rely on you all to help keep this place running. You must have these skills. Don't be like me. I couldn't wash my own clothes until I was in my thirties."

"Yes, messere," chorus the apprentices in the manner of those accustomed to being lectured. Aeveth sighs and moves off towards the stables, where more apprentices are tending to the few horses she has remaining.

"Your Worship!" exclaims the head stablehand as she approaches. "I mean, my lady! Messere Trevelyan!" The pointed tips of her ears turn pink with consternation. Aeveth considers promoting her for a second. She has proven almost as capable as Master Dennet, who has returned to his family in the Hinterlands.

"That's most unlike you, Hillas," Aeveth says, eyebrows furrowing slightly. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, my lady!" Hillas replies hurriedly, the tattoos on her face shifting with her expression. "I was uh, just not expecting you. To be here."

Her curiosity piqued, Aeveth asks, "Why not? I go where I wish."

Hillas does not get a chance to respond. Aeveth hears a loud, high whinny, and a second later the most gorgeous charger Aeveth has seen in her entire life bolts from the door of the barn, a hapless stablehand hanging onto the lead rope. She is a big beauty, her coat shiny and dappled, in perfect condition, black all over but for a large blaze of white down her face.

"Keeper!" Aeveth cries, her heart leaping in her chest. "Keeper!"

Keeper pins her ears back and snaps at the stablehand, her teeth just missing his shoulder. The stablehand scrambles away with an oath, ducking one of her back hooves as it lashes out in a kick. "Keeper!" Aeveth shouts again, and the mare is poetry itself as her head comes up, her ears pricking forward.

Aeveth hikes up her skirt and runs, throwing herself at the solid mass of horseflesh, sobbing. "My darling girl, my best girl," she says over and over, wrapping an arm around Keeper's neck, bestowing kisses all over her face. Keeper whickers at her, her nostrils flaring as she whuffles horse kisses along Aeveth's arm, her shoulder, her neck. "My darling girl, how are you here?" Aeveth asks, bumping her head against Keeper's blaze. "Did - did - "

Aeveth swallows, the words lodging in her throat. She cannot speak them for fear of them being true. Keeper lowers her head and and looks at her as if to say _I kept him safe, as promised._

"I will come back for you, I swear it," she whispers to Keeper, fingers moving, scratching the base of her ears, under her chin. Keeper's whiskers are bristly against her palm. Aeveth kisses Keeper's nose again. "I love you, my best girl, but if you are here then that means he's here too, and I must go to him."

Aeveth picks up the lead rope and shoves it at Hillas. "You've hidden this from me," she says accusingly.

"Not well, I'm afraid," she replies, then smiles.

Aeveth takes off at a run, flying past the surprised apprentices, her mind working faster than her feet. It was out of character for Rylen not to report to her once returned, and as she reaches the mansion Aeveth feels a stab of anger at his duplicity. A newcomer indeed, and Gavin complicit. Everyone has been complicit, she realizes, they’ve had to have been. She takes the stairs two at a time, turning right sharply, sprinting down the hall to the side wing containing the suite called the Tower. It is an apt descriptor, as the suite's master bedroom is located at the top of a turret.

Gavin is at the door when she arrives, breathless and panting. Though he no longer wears the flaming sword surcoat nor the full plate, his demeanor is still that of a templar as he guards the door, straight-backed and impassive.

"Step aside!" she orders him, bracing herself against the wall.

"My lady?" he asks, raising an eyebrow, polite inquiry on his handsome, dark face.

"Don’t ‘my lady’ me, Gavin. Let me pass!”

“Our guest does not wish to be disturbed,” Gavin says, but he cannot hide the smile that hovers over his lips.

“Like the void he does!” Aeveth snaps, shouldering Gavin aside, wrenching the latch of the door down and battering it open with a foot. She snarls her words behind her as she barrels into the foyer of the suite. “I’ll have your hides for this tomfoolery later!”

“Yes, my lady,” Gavin drones, and he has the temerity to sigh at her.

Michel is not in any of the rooms in the bottom level. Aeveth does not bother trying to be quiet, banging doors open, barging into every space, noting the bags and packs lined up neatly against the wall of the living area, the evidence of occupation in the carefully draped shirts on the back of a dining chair. She pounds up the stairs to the master bedroom, turns the latch, and shoves the door open.

“What is the meaning of this?” Michel demands, his back to her, his voice imperious with command. He is barefoot, in only shirtsleeves and breeches, not at all ready to show his face publicly. He keeps talking as he turns. “I gave orders not to be - Maker.”

They stare at each other, and Aeveth forgets to breathe at the sight of him.

“Um,” he says eventually, stunned and off-balance, not at all his usual poised self. “It seems I have been found out.”

“I haven’t seen you in over half a year,” Aeveth says in disbelief, “and your first word to me is um?”

They stare at each other for a moment longer. Aeveth drinks him in. Michel is achingly beautiful with cool sunlight silvering his hair, the light turning his eyes a velvety grey-blue. Her breath gusts softly past her lips, and she feels the beating of her heart in her mouth.

Michel closes the distance between them in two strides and kisses her. He kisses her, and it is as if there has been no time lost between them at all, like he has never left. He kisses her like he has spent every day since their last parting remembering down to the minute detail how to make her melt within the circle of his arms, how to communicate how much he loves her with every touch of his hand. Aeveth can read his _I love yous_ in all his movements. His soft exhale carries within it an _I love you_. The press of his body against hers writes _I love you, I love you_ into her skin. The taste of him, Maker help her, it’s _I love you_ , and his scent, bergamot and a hint of cedar, summer skies and a clean, light breeze, that’s _I love you_ as well.

“Oh, Maker,” she sighs against his lips. “I love you.”

He kisses her gently on the corner of her mouth. “I love you too.” Michel pulls back, smiling. “I should have known you would figure it out. What gave it away?”

Aeveth laughs, still distrustful of her senses. “I saw Keeper in the yard. Or rather, she heard me and came out to say hello.”

Michel feathers a kiss over her forehead. “Did she draw blood from whatever poor fool was holding her?”

“No, though it was a near thing.” Aeveth cups his cheek with her hand, then traces the scar bisecting his eyebrow with her forefinger. “My love, I can’t believe - how long are you here for? How did you convince Celene to let you come visit?”

“I received an invitation to a Satinalia party,” Michel replies. “The woman who invited me can be rather compelling.”

“Rather compelling?” Aeveth says, somewhat insulted. “Briony is not rather compelling. There are no qualifiers.”

“Indeed,” Michel says, his good humor showing as he smiles at her. “She is compelling, full stop. A force to be reckoned with. The tale of her throwing her blood into Cyril de Montfort’s face has gripped Orlais. There are songs.”

“There are songs!” Aeveth repeats, then laughs. “Truly, are there songs?”

“My heart, how could there not be songs?” He kisses her again. “The tale does not even need embellishing. It is being sung all over Val Royeaux. A sight better than that ‘Sera Was Never’ song, surely.”

“Maryden has not yet recovered from the fright of Sera splintering her lute with an arrow,” Aeveth says, nestling close. “ _Maker_ , I still can’t believe you’re here. I..."

And then the full force of the moment hits her: Michel is here, _here,_ and not just a comfortless memory that leaves her crying into her pillow. Aeveth shakes from the impact, tears brimming in her eyes. 

"I've...I've missed you. I don't want you to leave again." Aeveth grinds her teeth and swipes her tears away angrily, her mind leaping to the inevitable future, the goodbyes she’s said too many times. "I'm so happy you're here, if only for a little while."

"Aeveth," Michel says.

"But every time I have to leave you, I think I might die."

"Aeveth," Michel says again.

"It's true!" she protests vehemently, offended at his non-reaction, then smacks him in the chest for good measure. Michel takes the hit with blank-faced aplomb. "I know it sounds sappy and sentimental, but I'm not being hyperbolic, I swear it. Knowing you'll need to return to Orlais after the party - Maker, I can't. I can't." She buries her face in Michel's shirt and tries not to sniffle in too vulgar a fashion.

"Aeveth," Michel says rather patiently, for a third time.

"What?" she snaps at him, and he begins laughing. "Are you mocking me, Michel de Chevin? You insufferable ass! What is wrong with you?"

"Aeveth!" Michel grabs both her shoulders and looks her square in the eyes. "I'm not leaving."

She sags in his arms, limp with shock. "What?"

He draws her to him and kisses her cheek. "I'm not leaving."

Aeveth covers her mouth, her eyes wide.

"Finally, you are struck speechless." Michel grasps her hand, flips it palm up, presses a lingering kiss into it. "I'm not leaving you. I hope this is agreeable to you, as I have nowhere else to go if you respond negatively."

"I'm going to need to sit down," Aeveth says in a small voice.

Michel helps her to the bed, where she collapses heavily. Aeveth rids herself of her slippers, then pushes herself up, folding herself into a cross-legged position. "All right," she says after she breathes deeply, trying to center herself. "You aren't leaving."

"As long as you want me here, then no. I am staying."

"How?" is the only thing she can say.

Michel regards her intently, blue eyes thoughtful. "I could not stay away any longer knowing how much you had been through. I gave Celene my resignation a few months ago, and have been resolving remaining issues since. Now my business with the empire is concluded. I am yours wholly, if you'll have me."

"Is that why..." Aeveth thinks back to the last letter she had received from Michel, how he had said he would be unavailable for some time. "You were traveling? That's why you couldn't write me?"

He nods, leaning in for a kiss. Aeveth sighs when their lips part. Michel quirks an eyebrow upon hearing it, and kisses her again. "You," he murmurs, punctuating his words with small kisses. "Are irresistible to me. What a fool I sound right now."

"Then I will love a fool," Aeveth tells him, nuzzling his cheek. "I had thought your silence some kind of rejection. Because..." She lifts her left arm. "I wasn't sure if you'd want...being so far and all, and having not seen me for so long."

Michel releases her long enough to get both hands around her upper arm. He studies it for a long while, and then his hands move, thumbs digging into her muscles in a massage. Aeveth stifles her moan with the back of her hand. "Which one of us is truly the fool, I wonder?" he says quietly as he works. "I did not realize I loved only that part of you, and not the whole. Aeveth, I came because I have a strong arm and a stout heart, and you are in need of those things."

She blinks back rapidly rising tears. "It's true. I'm also in need of you."

"Ah," he says then, warm and low, the sound more a rumble in his chest as he pulls her into a tight embrace. "I like it when I'm right."

He kisses her again, and for a while they switch to the language of touches, of fingertips sliding across skin, of lips on lips and necks and shoulders. "Aeveth," Michel says once they are lying together on the bed, "as much as I desire you right now, I would rather postpone this for tonight when - when - we will have no distractions or interruptions."

"You can still think, Michel?" Aeveth replies, that familiar gravity drawing their bodies inexorably close. "Gavin is standing guard outside. We won't be disturbed."

"If we do not leave," Michel says, groaning as Aeveth slides herself down the bed, pressing wet kisses over stretched breeches, "then as soon as word gets out that you are in here, we will have dozens of ears to the door."

"Let them listen," Aeveth breathes, and kisses him some more. “They’ll have a show.”

Michel hisses. “Don’t tempt me.”

“I thought that’s what I was doing, de Chevin.” Aeveth bites her lip and grins. “Got any more excuses?” She begins hitching down the waist of his pants.

“No,” Michel says on a strained exhale.

Footsteps heavy on the stairs; someone knocks on the door. Aeveth flings herself off of Michel with a strangled shriek of frustration.

“NO!” she yells.

“Yes?” Michel gasps simultaneously.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” comes Gavin’s voice from beyond the door. Aeveth doesn’t think he sounds particularly sorry. “But Warden Taka says there is an urgent matter only you can attend to, my lady.”

“He did not!” Aeveth shouts, almost stamping a foot.

“I’m afraid he did, my lady. Only you, he said.”

“You had better not be laughing, Gavin, or I swear by the Maker’s dimpled asscheeks that - that - “ Aeveth stomps to the door and yanks it open, leaving Michel on the bed. “You took him seriously?!” she barks at Gavin, who to his credit does not flinch.

“I did mention you had just gone up,” he says, craning his head to the side, giving Michel a speculative glance, his eyes staying a hair too long on his pants.

“You did _not_ ,” Aeveth says, offended.

“I did,” Gavin says smoothly. “He insisted you come.”

“Well, I won’t.”

From behind her Michel lets out a guffaw. Aeveth drops her face into her hand. “You realize he’s pranking me, right? Where do you think I learned it?”

Gavin purses his mouth, then stands with his hands behind him, shoulders squared. “I wouldn’t know. He said it was of utmost importance you take a firm hand when addressing the staff over matters of lodging. He is waiting downstairs at your leisure.”

Michel grabs a pillow and muffles his raucous laughter, curling onto his side helplessly. Aeveth glares at him, then grinds her teeth before whipping herself around to face Gavin. “Meet me downstairs when you’re able,” she throws over her shoulder at Michel, who only laughs harder. “As for you, Gavin, you need a raise for delivering that dreck with a straight face.”

Gavin bows. “My lady.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I must lodge my fist in my dear cousin’s face.”

Aeveth goes downstairs, the sound of Gavin’s uproarious laughter following her.

*** *** ***

“I think it went well,” Michel says to Aeveth as they amble back to her quarters, the cape and hem of her dress twin whispers on the plush carpets. She still looks radiantly beautiful, even after an entire night’s worth of dancing. The slight flush in her cheeks from the champagne only makes her look more lovely, and she is already a vision in her slender, flowing midnight blue dress made of two layers of chiffon and silk, the topmost layer embroidered thickly with clusters of sequined flowers and leaves. The flora covers her upper body strategically, leaving the tops of her breasts and the space between them bare but for a layer of sheer material. Her cape is a match for the dress, a single layer of chiffon onto which the same flowers have been painstakingly sewn. The outside edges of the cape have been left untouched, and whenever Aeveth walks she looks even more graceful, the diaphanous material fluttering behind her. On her head sits a tiara of twining bronze vines, simple yet skilfully wrought, and her cosmetics tonight have brought focus upon the largeness and expressiveness of her warm brown eyes.

Michel himself is in a high-collared heavy brocade jacket of a complementary color, the subtle blue-on-blue weave shot through with bronze threads. It skims the lines of his body effortlessly, and Thierry has worked on it a marvel, cutting it to allow for movement while keeping bulk away. On one sleeve rears an embroidered horse; the other is covered by the half-cape draped over his shoulder. The jacket is almost knee-length on him, fastening down the front with mother-of-pearl buttons, cut so that the cream of his breeches can be glimpsed before they disappear into knee-high boots. Michel is certain that some kind of magic has gone into the tanning of the leather; the boots are black, but they have a bronze sheen to them that shifts and plays with changing light.

“I think it went splendidly,” Aeveth replies, giggling lightly. “Cullen and Briony! Who knew? Did you know, Michel?”

He smiles. “Only when you did, my heart.”

“We’ll need to find a new joke.”

Michel snorts. “I think not. Briony will have to remain my unrequited lady love.”

“Alas that she will likely be marrying another man,” Aeveth sighs dramatically, putting her hand to her chest. “Le pauvre chevalier! Doomed to pine forever after a woman who knows nothing of his affections, for his honor will not allow him to declare his passions whilst she is engaged to another. Verily, he will spend the rest of his days in lovelorn distress ere death take him.”

“You’ve been reading the Randy Dowager again, haven’t you?” Michel accuses her after his laughter subsides. “An issue of it was delivered to my quarters in the palace. Was that your doing?”

Aeveth stops in her tracks, then bends over laughing. “She actually sent it to you!”

Michel frowns. “Who, Sister Roxanne? I confess I have never heard of her, but she wanted me to sign the copy. I declined.”

Aeveth fights for breath among gales of laughter. “You should have!” she gasps. “It would have been delivered to me! Maker, if only you had signed it!”

“Aeveth, hush!” Michel scolds her. “You’ll wake half the house.”

“Sister Roxanne is _Cassandra_ , Michel,” Aeveth says, then falls into a fresh round of giggles. 

“The Divine,” Michel says flatly. “The Divine sent me erotica about me to sign so that it could be delivered to you?”

Aeveth is almost crying with how hard she is laughing. “Imagine how rare that would be!” she wheezes. “Did you read it?!”

“No!” Michel says sharply. “Why would I read such a base thing?”

She puts out a hand and sinks to the carpet, holding herself up. “Five scarves! Out of five! It was inspired, Michel! A gift from the Maker himself. Truly moving writing that did not disappoint upon reread.”

Michel stares open-mouthed as he tries to process what Aeveth is saying. His lover has read erotica about him, and it had been good enough for her to…

He scowls and helps her up, his cheeks aflame. “Well, now you have the real thing.”

“Ooh,” Aeveth says, singsong and teasing. “Look who’s all riled up. Is reality better than fiction, Ser Michel? Are you up to the task of proving that your chevalier stamina is not storied but the very truth itself?”

Michel clamps his lips shut over his laugh, coughs instead. “You’ve had too much to drink.”

“Haven’t,” Aeveth says primly in a perfect imitation of Sera. “I will,” she starts, then staggers and leans against him. “I will have to write in with a list of corrections!”

“I cannot imagine being more thoroughly disgraced if you do so,” Michel mutters as he half-drags Aeveth down the hall, her laughter ringing off the corners and ceiling.

They enter Aeveth’s suite. The candles and the fireplace have already been lit, and as Michel begins undoing the buttons on his jacket he observes how rosy Aeveth’s skin looks, how she almost glows in the reddish light. Wordlessly she presents her back to him; Michel unbuttons the cape from her shoulders, unhooks the tiny closures sewn into the back of her dress. It had been a pain to get them all hooked correctly in the first place, but when Michel tried to bring up the subject with Thierry all he got was a dark look from the mustached man and a muttered oath. Something about Fereldans.

“You’re an upgrade,” Aeveth had assured Michel then. “Just be patient with the dress, all right? Thierry is worth at least double his weight in gold. I trust him.” 

He kisses her neck softly when it’s bared, feels her skin tighten into goosebumps beneath his lips. “Michel,” Aeveth sighs, her arm reaching behind her, finding his waist. He slides his arms around her and bows his head, inhaling her scent mixed with the embrium essence he’d sent her almost a year prior. “This isn’t a dream, right? You’ll still be here tomorrow?”

“And the day after, and the day after that, and all the days if you’ll have me.” He clears his throat. “If you’ll have me. You haven’t answered the question.”

Aeveth frees herself from him, faces him with the neckline of her dress drooping down. “Of course I’ll have you. What made you think I didn’t?”

He kisses her forehead. “Call it silly, but I wanted to hear you say it. After being apart so long…”

“I understand,” she murmurs.

“I wanted to be worthy of you,” Michel says then, suddenly serious. She meets his gaze slowly, lips parted, and Michel thinks he hasn’t ever seen anyone so beautiful. “I want to be worthy of you,” he says, voice low. “I hope to be worthy of you. That is part of the reason why I returned to Orlais, so that I could be officially restored to my former status. I did not think I was a good enough partner in name for you without those things.”

“Michel,” Aeveth says, brushing her thumb over his lower lip. “You are good enough without them. Better than good.” She raises herself on tiptoes and kisses the corner of his mouth.

“I missed so much,” he says, pained, desperation rising within him, shocking in its ferocity. He kisses her, unable to speak for it. "Aeveth," he breathes when their lips part. Her eyes are wide with surprise at his show of emotion. "I failed you. I failed you, and you have my deepest apologies."

"What are you talking about?" Her eyes search his. "How did you fail me?"

"I was not - I was not present for the important moments." He swallows, clears his throat. "My heart, I should have been with you at Halamshiral when you went through the mirrors. I should have been the shield protecting you from the Council and the Qunari. But I have missed so much because I was doing what I thought was important."

Their faces are so close that their noses almost touch. Michel can feel the muscles in Aeveth's neck working as she breathes, the warmth of her lips but an inch from his. Her mouth is sweet. He wants to kiss her, in case she agrees with him.

"Michel," Aeveth says softly, "What you did was important. You’ve been trying to change things for the better in Orlais, and change is slower than slow there. I did miss you. I have wanted all the same things as you. I wanted you at my side at all the negotiations and talks. I wanted more than the moments we stole whenever I visited you. I wanted you with me in every battle I took part in."

His heart sinks. “All that time wasted,” he whispers. “I could have been there with you if only I had refused Celene.”

Aeveth shakes her head. "No, Michel. Think of it as all the time we now have. I am not upset with you, nor have I ever been upset at you for doing what you thought was right and honorable. But you have walked away from that life of your own volition. You made your choice freely, and that was the only thing I ever wanted for you. There is nothing holding us back, do you understand? No other obligations other than to each other. There is nothing but you and me, and whatever life we create for ourselves. You have not failed me in the slightest, my love. Do not think of yourself that way."

Michel holds himself still, unsure how to react in the face of her kindness and compassion.

“If you so much as breathe a word about not being worthy of me,” Aeveth says, ferocious, “you will be sleeping in the hallway tonight. To question my judgment is to question my intelligence and knowledge. Raise objections one or twice, Michel, but if you continually do so then you do me insult. I have chosen _you.”_

There is silence as Michel wrestles with himself and his emotions.

“I love you,” he says to her simply after a while. It’s the only thing he can think of.

Aeveth hugs him tightly, then rests her head against him. “I love you too,” she murmurs. “Let’s get ready for bed. I’m excited to wake up to you tomorrow morning, and the day after, and the day after that.”

 _And the day after that,_ Michel thinks, _and the months after that, and the years following until we are old and grey and the Maker calls us back to his side._

“Me too,” he agrees, and walks with her into the washroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this is incoherent I apologize. I'm so close to the end that I'm pulling long hours to get it done, without much patience for thorough and thoughtful editing. Just one more after this. Just...one...more...


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest readers,
> 
> Thank you all once again for coming with me on this ride. This is the longest thing I have ever written in my life. It has completely consumed me in the last three weeks, has chewed me up and spit me out and left me wanting to get back on and do it again. This has been a difficult work not in the sense that it was hard to write (though it had its moments) but in the sense that it was going directly against the wishes of many of you.
> 
> I've learned a lot about reader feedback and authorial intent in writing this. I do think I should stick with my gut. Sometimes that makes people leave, and sometimes I write about problematic characters, which also drives readers away. For those of who you are still left, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. These characters have really wormed their way in and knowing that you guys care as much as I do - that's a lot. That's worth so much.
> 
> Thank you to my friends who were there for me any time I needed eyeballs. Beth (drenntrev) and Dee (Erunamiryene) have been tireless cheerleaders and pre-readers for chapters that were much, much longer than intended. Thank you to my muses, Altareen and thesecondsealwrites. Without their cheerleading, this ship might never have sailed. Thank you to my regular readers who comment so faithfully: Batty, Slothquisitor, spazhime. Thank you to Cenk, Digi, apostatequeen, CES479 (Cullen rivalmance forever!), maharia_avile, DeepBlu_baloooo, KatzeBlue, and tekla_cat for reading so faithfully. And a huge, special thanks to Ithilne for the inspired, gorgeous artwork that still makes me sigh deeply every time I see it.
> 
> Thank you, all of you, every reader who came by, every reader who gave me a kudos, every reader who gave this pairing a shot and trusted me to handle these characters in believable ways. Thank you for putting up with writing that needed more time to bake before I posted it. Thank you to everyone who rooted for Aeveth, who fell in love with her, who feared her, who disliked her intensely and yet stayed to see what would happen. Thank you, thank you, thank you. This is a good way to bow out.
> 
> All my love.

The foothills of the Vimmark Mountains are lush and green and rolling, morning mist pooling liquid in the dips between the rises. They stretch as far as the eye can see, verdant and peaceful, with dark wooden fences holding fast to the gentle curves of the land, as close as a lover. They cross over the land in lines and angles, casual limbs flung over a slumbering form. An expanse of back there, softly interrupted by the swell of a shoulderblade. The sleep-eased planes of a stomach here, the barely perceptible respiration of the earth rising and falling with breeze-rustled grass.

Aeveth stands with Michel beside her and watches the small herd of colts as they fan out across the pasture, kicking their heels, working off pent-up energy from being in the barn overnight. She can sense Keeper’s eagerness to be out as well; her head and tail are up and her ears are pricked, and every now and then Aeveth can feel the rumble of a call in her chest.

“We’ll go for a run,” she assures Keeper. She responds with a snort, but continues to stand still. Aeveth lets go of her reins for a moment in order to rub her nose. The mare has mellowed out now that she is ten, or perhaps she is more careful and considerate knowing that Aeveth will be forever injured. Either way, Keeper guards her fiercely, makes it known that Aeveth is under the aegis of her care.

It has gotten to the point where she will even refuse Michel on her back, which is why they are all gathered at the pasture fence watching prospective colts race around the field, whinnying their happiness at their freedom.

“Aeveth,” Michel says, and there is the slightest catch in his throat. His eyes are a bit too bright as he looks out into the pasture. “I cannot thank you enough for this.”

She smiles, affection stealing through her chest. “What is a chevalier without a horse, Michel? It’s past time you had a partner again.”

“You know that wasn’t what I meant,” he says, turning to her.

Aeveth sighs, dropping the reins again to run her fingers along Keeper’s jowl. She is well aware of what Michel means, of course, but Aeveth is reluctant to talk about it even now. At least opening the lines of communication between herself and her brother had been easier than she’d anticipated. There remains the deep rift between her and her parents, and even though Aeveth has been back to the estate briefly, she has declined any contact with them.

A chevalier needed a horse; Michel needed the best she could provide. And thus Aeveth had reached out soon after he came home to Sanctuary, wrote the first tentative letter to a brother she had known only as a squalling infant in her mother’s arms. Taka had helped, sending his own letter to Kelith, and Aeveth had been grateful for the assistance. The response arrived a season later, cool and professional.

She can do cool and professional. The transaction is purely for business purposes, and Aeveth has insisted on paying the Trevelyans the same price they would charge anyone else.

Michel’s eyes find hers when she doesn’t reply. “I know it cost you effort,” he says quietly. “More than you are letting on. More than you will show me.”

Aeveth nods once. Her family’s betrayal has always been the one thing she has held onto past reason, and Michel knows better than to plumb those depths.

“I am grateful,” Michel says. “Thank you.”

“Here comes Kelith,” Aeveth murmurs, her hand closing upon Keeper’s reins. They both watch her younger brother approach, attired in a no-nonsense riding outfit. He is raven-haired and slender like Aeveth, his skin a more intense tawny color than hers, with the angular, squared jaw and expressive brown eyes that are common in her family. Kelith is about a handspan taller than Aeveth herself, and as he draws closer she notes he is wearing a smartly-cut tweed jacket over gray jodhpurs. They are tucked neatly into polished black riding boots.

“Have you decided, Ser Michel?” Kelith asks politely. His voice is warm and melodious, carefully cultivated to sound soft-spoken and a bit passive. Aeveth observes all this critically, her face giving away nothing. When she had played the Game she favored the long con, bargaining her way to her goal step by little step, using the power play strategically. Takaleth is all charm and humor, wheedling information out through innocent questions and flirtatious banter. It is quite the contrast to his sister Raeneth, whose eidetic memory and glacial sharpness intimidate most into capitulation. 

Kelith, however - Kelith, Aeveth figures, prefers to be the unseen threat, the one easily disregarded, the one who appears out of nowhere at the last moment to snatch victory from the victorious.

“I have not yet, my lord,” Michel replies. “It is a most difficult decision, and I fear I will need more time.”

“Please, take it. This decision cannot be made lightly. I will bring your mount to the stables nearest the paddock; whenever you are ready, simply call upon any of the stablehands and they will retrieve him.”

Michel hands over the reins, but when Kelith turns his attention to her Aeveth only blinks twice and says, “I will be riding shortly.”

Kelith inclines his head. “I don’t blame you, elder sister. I would ride as well with a mare that spirited. I will not take up more of your time, Ser Michel. Best of luck. Until later, Ser Michel, revered elder sister.” He walks off, Michel’s horse in tow.

“Aeveth,” Michel says mildly. “If you were any more cold there would be ice at your feet. If that is the angle you are taking, at least warn me so that I can mitigate the damage.”

She heaves a sigh, her shoulders relaxing. “I wasn’t playing, Michel.”

“That much was obvious,” he responds, his voice still pleasant. “He is not to blame for what happened to you. It is unkind for you to treat him as such.”

Aeveth scowls. He isn't the one who should be talking about being unkind, even though he is right. “Help me up.”

Michel gives her a boost, then presses a kiss to her knee once she’s in the saddle. “I might be a while.”

“I’ll take a long ride, then. Keeper is keen this morning.” Aeveth clicks to her, feels flesh and bone shift beneath her hips and knees, then kisses her into a trot. She moves beautifully down the wide, grassy track between the pastures.

Aeveth glances back as she posts, and the last thing she sees is Michel vaulting over the fence, an expression of joy on his face. It is rare, that kind of happiness, and Aeveth tucks it into her heart, lets it lie less than a breath away, close and sweet.

*** *** ***

Things are different, Aeveth reminds herself, and adjusting takes time. More than a few months, or half a year, or even a year. Aeveth’s experience with babies is extremely limited, but she knows that it takes them almost a year to learn how to walk, and takes comfort in that knowledge. She is not learning how to walk, but she is learning the new limits of her body, and it will take time.

It will take time.

She has adjusted to plenty of things. Kirkwall is a shithole, and she has learned to live with it. The house is too quiet without Bull and Sera around, but she tolerates it knowing they will be back. There are cracked roof tiles over one of the guest bedrooms, and when it rains the water bleeds down the walls. There was a time when Aeveth would have tried to fix it herself, but now she must wait for someone to do it for her. Rylen, probably.

She has always been adaptable. She has always found a way to triumph over adversity. The Circle. The Inquisition and all the problems therein. Solas, in a way; Aeveth looks forward to seeing him again, is ready to pit herself against him, will make sure he doesn’t destroy them all with his well-intentioned plans. She will make sure that the world doesn’t crumble and fall to pieces, the way her arm did.

Aeveth sets a large pot on the counter, drags it carefully into the sink with her right hand. The last time she did the dishes she made such a clamor that the cook and her assistant came scrambling back in, worried she’d hurt herself. So Aeveth takes her time - she has adjusted, after all - and pours a bit of clean water into the pot, drops the bar of lye soap in, heats everything with clear intent and fire lining her skin.

She picks up a dish rag, crumples it into a ball, and sticks her hand back into the pot. If she scrubs too hard the pot will skitter around the sink, and it will result in nothing but frustration for her. She could lean down and push her stump against it to hold it steady, but decides against it. The pot is not in need of such vigorous treatment.

A swish and a swirl; grimy water splashes straight up into her face. Aeveth flinches and cries out, closing her eyes, reaching out with her left hand, groping for the dry rag she knows is just within reach.

Except there is no left hand, and the rag will never be within reach.

Aeveth’s right hand contracts into a fist. The water stirs, churning wildly as she bows her head, gulping air desperately to keep from screaming. She wants to scream so badly. She cannot forget that her hand is gone, and yet she does it so easily.

“Splashed yourself?” Aeveth can hear the gentle smile in Michel’s voice more readily than she can hear his slippered footsteps behind her. “Hold still a moment.” Cloth touches her face, cleans away the water. Aeveth opens her eyes, still breathing hard, still shaking.

Michel dips a small ewer into the vat of clean water beside the sink, then takes Aeveth’s hand and rinses it. He prises the rag from her fingers and dries her off. “Aeveth,” he says gently, and through her frustration she feels a spot of calm. Michel is so steady for her, his presence in her life a constant star she needs to orbit. 

“I know you want to be helpful, my heart, but perhaps tonight you can leave this task to the…” Michel pauses.

“Staff,” Aeveth finishes for him.

“The staff,” Michel repeats. “Yes. As you have said, they are not servants.” Michel takes her into his arms, his hands moving in soothing circles over her back.

“I only take on those who are willing.” She tries to let go of her emotions, but it’s no use.

“That is something I have grown to admire about you,” Michel says, and at that Aeveth tucks her head against the curve of his neck. “I know it matters little to hear this at the moment, but you already help in many ways. Sanctuary is a center of learning and retreat in the city. You have a dozen apprentices to teach, half that many templars sheltering here under supervision, an apothecary shop to run...” He brushes a kiss onto the top of her head. “...Red Jenny duties to attend with Sera, consultations with Varric and Aveline. I think you do enough without having to double as a scullery maid.”

He pauses. “A rather pretty scullery maid.”

She tries to scowl.

“You are frowning at me.”

“No, I am attempting to frown at you, without much success.” Aeveth pulls the ends of her mouth down, but winds up with a pout instead.

“I believe I know how to change that,” Michel says with a slight smile. It puts a light in his eyes, one Aeveth is always happy to see. “Dinner _is_ over. I confess I am eager for entertainment.”

She smiles despite herself, but keeps her mouth shut.

Michel takes half a pace back, nudges her chin upward with the knuckle of his forefinger. His kiss is chaste and innocent. “Did I misspeak?” he murmurs once their eyes meet. “Or perhaps you did not hear me?”

He kisses the corners of her lips when they turn up. “Ser Michel,” Aeveth says, “I’m afraid it was the latter.”

“Oh.” His lips find her ear; he half-growls his next words. “My heart, the house is mostly empty, you are beautiful and in need of distraction, and I much desire your company.” It is endearing, his smile framed with parentheses. “Was it clear that time?”

“Yes,” she replies, kissing his cheek, his stubble rough against her skin. “And yet it seems my understanding is lacking. I believe I’ll need clarification. Perhaps some visual aids. I do best learning hands-on.”

“I am a poor teacher,” Michel says, encircling her waist with his arm, pulling her flush with him, guiding her out of the kitchen and towards her room. Their room, Aeveth corrects herself. The adaptation is slow in coming, but she loves the process of it. Their room, she thinks again, it is firmly theirs, and their bed carries their commingled scents, heady and intoxicating. 

“The Academie did not school its pupils in pedagogy. I fear I am better suited to demonstrations and physical displays rather than eloquent speech and witticisms.”

Aeveth rests her head against the soft spot between Michel’s shoulder and chest, smiles to herself when she rediscovers the subjectiveness of the adjective. Soft is not a word she can use to describe Michel’s body, though he makes up for it in how he treats her when they’re alone. Soft is how he looks at her, how he holds her before they fall asleep. Soft is how he etches _I love you_ into her with eyes and lips and the stir of his breath.

“Need I remind you we are in the Free Marches?” Their strides sync as they amble down the long hallway to their quarters. “We are not Orlesian, to be swayed by pretty words. We believe in action.”

“Then, my heart,” Michel says gravely, his hand falling upon the door latch. The door swings open silently. “I believe we are perfectly matched, are we not?”

They enter, unmindful of the darkness. Aeveth does not need firelight to affirm what she already knows with fingers and mouth and bared skin. She kicks the door shut behind them.

“Ser Michel,” she answers him as he begins to strip away clothing, “I believe we are.”

*** *** ***

Michel comes out of the bath to find Aeveth has lit all the lanterns in the room. She is sitting in a well-padded chair at her reading desk, a thick tome propped up on the angled surface. The tunic she wears is too large for her; Michel smiles to himself when he realizes it’s one of his. He takes a moment to observe her. She is stunning even with her back turned to him, the lines of her body hinted at through the translucence of loose, firelit linen, her hair a cascade of inky strands over one shoulder.

He smiles again as he calls up the recent memory of her hair between his fingers, only half a candlemark faded. He’s pleasantly worn and emptied from their session, relaxed and satisfied after unraveling her time and time again. It never gets old, that. It never gets old seeing the wickedness of her smile when it’s her turn, or the sinuous roll of her body that tears profanity from his lips. Michel swears seldomly but he’ll do it for her, has done it to her, has spoken aloud his devotions with all the four-letter words he knows. Michel will sin gladly for her until that moment when everything stills and crashes, and he will find his redemption in the spaces between her gasps.

Aeveth sighs softly and turns the page, scratches idly at the stump of her left arm. Michel's chest twinges. The loss of her limb is a constant hurt, though Maker bless her, she tries her best to be optimistic. Sometimes she falters and the dreams come back, bringing with them her dark moods and a need to withdraw. Michel lets her have some of these periods, knows that there is little he can do when she is engaged so bitterly with herself. 

He does not panic when she pulls away from him. If she no longer desired him, he would expect to see his meager personal belongings on display in the front yard. Michel waits instead for those moments when she does not tense at his touch, does not turn her face from his. There isn’t much to say but there is something he can do, so Michel tries his best to help her keep things running when all she wants to do is drink tea and huddle by the window.

Aeveth turns another page. Michel stirs from where he's standing, undoes the towel from around his waist, runs a hand through his damp hair. He goes to the wardrobe to select clean clothes, and by the time he is dressed he finds he has commanded Aeveth's attention, wholly and in full. Now it is she who observes him, a smirk curling her lips. Michel returns it.

"What are you reading?" he asks, going to her, bending down to nudge his cheek against hers.

"A draft of Varric's," she replies, glancing at it.

"Another _Hard in Hightown?_ The masses will rejoice. They have done well in Orlais." Michel squints in an attempt to read.

"Yes, ever since Varric had it out with his publisher and began distributing in Orlais, sales of his entire oeuvre have skyrocketed." Aeveth marks her spot nonchalantly and shuts the book. Michel quirks an eyebrow. "This is not the next in the series."

"Not for my eyes, then?" He straightens.

"Not yet." Aeveth lifts the hem of his shirt, bares the skin of his stomach, and presses kisses from hip to hip. Michel sighs, tracing two fingers over the shell of her ear before following the contour of her jaw all the way to her chin. He tilts her face up.

"Lady Trevelyan, you are insatiable."

"For you?" A smile. "Yes. The appetite is never quite whetted. I love you, you know.”

He blinks three times in quick succession, suddenly overwhelmed by emotion. "I know."

“Do you?” She nuzzles his hip and inhales. “Mmm. Do you, Michel? Because when I say I love you I mean I love all of you. I love all of you from now until I die, which will hopefully be before you.”

Michel takes hold of the chair with his free hand and turns it to face him, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. He drops to one knee in front of Aeveth and kisses her fiercely, his right hand slipping behind her neck, cradling the back of her head. “Why before me?”

“Because.” The sadness in her eyes is enough to break him. “You are strong enough to go on without me, but I am not strong enough to go on without you.”

Michel closes his eyes, stricken, and allows his forehead to rest against hers. "That is a lie. You are strong enough, even if you still have bad days. You have proven your strength and fortitude is second to none in this world." The words accumulate against her lips. He waits for her to breathe them in. "I will be here to support you regardless. My heart, I just want you to be happy."

"Michel..." The barest hint of a kiss, heat caressing heat. "Without you, those bad days would be unbearable. I need your help to remind me of that strength.” Another kiss, her fingers tightening upon his cheekbone, his jaw. "I _am_ happy. You've made me happier than I can express."

"Aeveth," he barely manages, his throat swelling. "I...I’m glad. I love you, Aeveth. You make me want to be more than I am for you. You make me feel boundless." It dawns upon him then the importance of their words, spoken like vows. 

Michel has never wanted to be married, but at this moment he has never wanted anything more than to be married to her.

Aeveth’s big brown eyes are wide again, and Michel can feel her lower lip trembling. He gathers his courage carefully in his hands, holds it steady until it becomes something he can use. 

"Aeveth,” he says finally, “will you marry me? I have nothing to offer you. No lands, no real title, none of the finery or extravagances you deserve. I have only myself, but..." 

He thumbs away brimming tears. "...I am yours, completely, if you will have me."

"Oh, Maker," she breathes so quietly he almost cannot hear it. "Michel, yes. _Yes._ Yes, I'll marry you, I don't care about titles or riches, you know that! Yes of _course,_ Maker yes, sweet Andraste, yes, yes -"

Michel kisses her, giddy and lightheaded, keeps kissing her as he stands, laughs at the awkwardness of keeping their mouths sealed as they fumble towards the bed, kisses her as they sink down onto the mattress. He kisses her as he pulls her over him, kisses her as she extinguishes all the light in the room with a sweeping gesture, plants kisses on her chin, her shoulder, her arm, anything within reach as she gropes for the blankets.

"Did I mention," she says faintly as she shifts off him onto her side, "that I'm saying yes? Because yes. Michel, _yes._ "

He turns onto his side, throws an arm over her, and crushes her to him. She giggles when he lets go. "Yes to that, too."

Michel gives her a bright grin he knows she can feel but cannot see. "What was the question again?" he asks, cheeky and ecstatic.

"You ass," Aeveth laughs. "Will you marry me? That was the question."

"Yes," Michel answers immediately, right before Aeveth kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin.


End file.
